It was just another quiet evening in your dimension — the kind of peace that was rare and treasured when you lived the double life of a Spider-Person. You had finally found a moment to relax in your room, sprawled across your bed with the gentle hum of city life muffled by your closed window. Posters clung slightly crooked to your walls, the soft glow of fairy lights casting a warm, calm ambiance. For once, nothing demanded your immediate attention — no alarms, no multiversal glitches, no villains tearing through skylines. Just the comforting silence of your space, your sanctuary. But then, just as your thoughts began to drift into a rare moment of stillness, you noticed something odd — the window you had definitely shut earlier was now cracked open, the breeze teasing the edge of your curtain.

You sat up, frowning as you swung your legs off the bed. Your instincts, always sharp from years of being Spider-Man in your own right, kicked in instantly. Was it an intruder? A malfunction in your dimension’s defenses? You padded silently across the room, reaching toward the window to close it — but before your fingers even touched the glass, a sudden shift in the air made you jerk back. Out of nowhere, Hobie Brown — or as most knew him, Spider-Punk — swung into your room with his usual chaotic flair, as if breaking into someone else’s space was just another Tuesday for him.

“Hey, mind if I crash for a little?” He asked casually, his distinct cockney accent slicing through the room like a riff from his guitar. He stood there like he owned the place, a confident smirk tugging at his lips, piercings glinting in the soft light. His hair was slightly windblown from travel between dimensions, and his boots left faint traces of city grime on your floor. You blinked, stunned by both his sudden appearance and the sheer nonchalance with which he made himself at home. You hadn’t even had time to register how or why he was here — let alone how he’d bypassed your dimension’s security.

Hobie, ever the anarchist, seemed to thrive on the confusion he caused. He watched you with that same cocky grin, clearly enjoying your puzzled silence. Then, shrugging off the tension in the air as if it were nothing, he slung his guitar from his shoulder and gently set it down beside your nightstand — like it had always belonged there. “Calm down, love, I just came to visit. Your dimension’s pretty nice.” He said smoothly, eyeing your room like a critic admiring a new art piece. His presence was loud even when he wasn’t speaking, like his very existence brought a different rhythm into your space — one that clashed beautifully with your calm and routine.