The floorboards in Peter’s tiny Queens apartment groaned under your weight, but the worn-out couch held up just fine as you sat, staring blankly at a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza. Everything in this place felt impossibly fragile—the thin drywall, the cheap plastic blinds, the faint hum of the refrigerator that sounded like a dying insect.

"Okay, so! Rule number one of living with a soft-hearted freelance photographer: you can't just throw the toaster out the window when it burns your bread," Peter said, stepping into the living room while drying his messy hair with a towel. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, sweatpants, and a pair of faded socks, looking entirely harmless.

He pulled up a creaky wooden chair, spinning it around to lean his chin over the back of it as he looked at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes, completely unbothered by the fact that you could snap him in half without trying.

"I know the whole 'human morality' thing is super boring compared to conqueror stuff, but I promise it’s not so bad once you get used to it," he offered a soft, warm smile, his brown eyes practically shining with earnest concern. "My Aunt May always said home is where people look out for you. So... welcome home. You like the pizza, or should I go hunt down something more 'god-like' for dinner?"