Chapter Text
First thing you need to know: your friendly neighborhood superhero is never having a good day. Ever.
Yesterday was supposed to be routine. She webbed a robber—some guy with a crowbar and bad intentions—outside a bodega in Brooklyn. No big deal. No scratches. She even posed for a selfie with the cashier's kid, a little girl who looked at her like she was Santa Claus and a unicorn rolled into one. By midnight, she was home, peeling off the suit in her closet, her muscles humming with that familiar post-swing exhaustion. The good kind of tired. The kind that means you did something right. She went to her cousin's room, her grown-up baby Hyein, to check if she's sleeping tight.
Then came Aunt Seulgi, waiting in the hallway with her arms crossed and a look that could curdle milk.
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Superhero hours?"
"School starts at eight, Minji. EIGHT."
She got scolded for fifteen minutes. Aunt Seulgi is not a yeller. She's worse: she's disappointed. Her voice goes quiet, and her eyes go sad, and Minji would rather fight a dozen armed robbers than sit through one of those lectures. She showered. Brushed her teeth. Fell into bed.
And then came the nightmares.
The ones she never talks about.
The woman on the bridge—Minji reached for her, fingertips brushing, but the woman's grip slipped. She fell. Minji woke up gasping, her own hand still stretched toward the ceiling. The kid whose hand slipped from hers—that one is newer. A boy, maybe seven, in a burning building. Minji got him out, but in the dream, she doesn't. In the dream, she's too slow. Always too slow.
She woke up at 3:47 AM with her heart jackhammering against her ribs and her sheets twisted around her legs like a trap. The ceiling stared back at her. Blank. White. Unforgiving.
She didn't sleep again.
So yeah. Not great.
And now she's back in hell. Otherwise known as high school.
Senior year. Same fluorescent lights that buzz like trapped flies, humming overhead in a frequency that makes her teeth ache. Same cliques carving up the cafeteria like territory lines—jocks by the windows, arts kids in the corner, the loners scattered in between like islands. Same smell of warm pizza sauce and despair, undercut by the sharp chemical tang of floor cleaner and teenage angst.
She's not the loser she used to be. The whispers have changed. "Why did that nerd lesbian suddenly get muscles?" "Did she get taller?" "I swear she wasn't that hot last year." But some things don't change. The hallways are still too long, stretching out like a punishment between bells. The bells are still too loud, jarring her spine every time they ring. And she still doesn't belong here—not really, not anymore. She belongs to the rooftops now, to the wind and the web lines and the city spread out like a promise.
But someone makes this place bearable.
Kang Haerin.
The bane of Minji's existence. Introverted, sarcastic, annoyingly smart. They met freshman year when Haerin corrected the teacher's math—"Actually, the square root of 144 is 12, not 14, but nice try"—and then refused to explain how she knew. She just shrugged and went back to her book. Minji was fascinated. Horrified. Intrigued.
They bonded over mutual hatred of group projects and a shared addiction to terrible convenience store coffee. The kind that comes in a styrofoam cup and tastes like burnt regret. Haerin was the first person who knew the real Minji—even before the spider bite. She figured it out three days after the incident, because of course she did. Minji had tried to hide it. The new reflexes, the way she flinched at sudden movements, the way she climbed the fire escape to her bedroom instead of using the stairs.
Haerin had cornered her after school. "You're Spider-Girl." Not a question. A statement. Minji had sputtered, denied, made up a lie about gymnastics. Haerin just stared at her with those flat, knowing eyes. "You flinched at a fly, Minji. A FLY. You have superpowers now. Explain."
Minji explained. Haerin said "cool" and asked if she could swing them both to school tomorrow.
That was two years ago. Now Haerin is her anchor, her reality check, the only person who can make her laugh when the nightmares are bad. The only person who knows every version of her—the nerd, the hero, the mess.
Right now, Haerin is smirking over her chocolate milk.
"You don't know what I saw today," she says, stirring the carton with a straw. Her smirk is a specific shape—crooked on the left side, slightly evil. It's her I have gossip and you're going to hate it smirk.
Minji already knows where this is going.
Let's rewind.
Last year. Junior year. AP English. The teacher—a wispy man who wore the same cardigan every Wednesday, the color of week-old oatmeal—announced paired research projects. Minji had been paired with the new girl. Australian transfer. Long, black hair that fell in soft waves around her face. Eyes that crinkled when she smiled, like she knew something you didn't and it was probably funny. Her name was Hanni Pham.
They met in the library after school. Hanni brought snacks—Tim Tams, which Minji had never heard of but immediately fell in love with. Hanni asked questions about Minji's life like she actually cared. Not the polite where are you from kind, but real questions. What do you think about when you can't sleep? What's the best thing that happened to you this week? Hanni laughed at Minji's stupid jokes—the ones that usually got her blank stares and awkward silences.
By the end of the week, Minji had done something she'd never done before: she'd developed a crush. The real kind. The kind that makes your stomach drop when someone walks into a room. The kind that makes you rehearse conversations in the shower. The kind that terrifies her because it feels like falling without a web line.
They finished the project. Got an A. And then... nothing.
Hanni moved on to other classes, other friends. Minji went back to being the girl two rows behind her, the one who looks away every time Hanni catches her staring. The one who can't form a complete sentence when Hanni says "hey" in the hallway.
That was a year ago. Minji has been pretending not to care ever since.
It's not working.
"What, your stupid Aussie crush?" Minji steals Haerin's drink. The chocolate milk is room temperature and aggressively sweet, coating her tongue like liquid sugar. "By the way, this sucks. How do you drink this every day?"
"First of all, go fuck yourself." Haerin kicks her under the table. The impact lands right on Minji's shin. She mouths ouch but doesn't flinch—superhero durability has its perks. "Second, no. I heard Hanni talking about Spider-Girl. She's a real fangirl." Haerin pauses, takes a breath. "Stop mentioning Danielle. I will kill you."
"And what about it?"
Minji plays it cool. Too cool. She leans back in her chair, drapes an arm over the backrest, lets her face go blank. The mask she wears at school—different from the one she wears at night, but a mask all the same. But inside, something flickers to life. A small, selfish warmth spreading through her chest like honey.
Hanni Pham is a fan of Spider-Girl.
Spider-Girl can be everything Minji isn't. Confident. Powerful. Seen. Worth looking at. The mask hides her flaws, her hesitations, the way her voice sometimes cracks when she's nervous. Behind the mask, she's someone else. Someone Hanni might actually notice. Someone who doesn't drop pencil cases or blush when a pretty girl says hello.
"Stop being nonchalant," Haerin says, snatching her chocolate milk back. She wipes the straw with her sleeve—dramatically, to make a point. "She walks by and you act like you've never seen a girl before. You embarrass yourself. It makes me sick."
"Like you're any better when your Aussie walks by?"
Minji glances past Haerin's shoulder, and there she is.
Danielle June Marsh.
Smiley, blonde, all golden retriever energy and sun-drenched smiles. She's wearing a bright yellow sweater and carrying a stack of flyers. Her hair is in a high ponytail that swings when she walks. She's the kind of person who probably names her plants and cries at commercials. Haerin's personal kryptonite.
"Speaking of—"
"Shut up," Haerin hisses, stomping her foot under the table. Her ears are turning pink—the first sign of the Haerin-meltdown. First the ears, then the cheeks, then the complete and total loss of verbal function.
"HAERIN!"
Danielle crashes into their table like a small hurricane. There's no other way to describe it. One moment she's ten feet away, the next she's everywhere—arms, flyers, laughter, the smell of strawberry shampoo. She wraps her arms around Haerin in a hug that lifts the smaller girl half out of her seat.
The same Haerin who made Minji sign a six-month friendship contract and a pinky swear before allowing a single hug. The same Haerin who has a personal bubble the size of a compact car. The same Haerin who once told a freshman "if you touch me, I will simply perish" and meant it.
But Danielle gets a hug instantly. Just like that. No contract. No pinky swear. Just arms around shoulders and a squeeze.
Minji is totally fine with this. Totally.
"I was looking for you everywhere!" Danielle beams. Her smile is the kind that makes you want to protect her from the world, even though she's probably the strongest person in the room emotionally. "You have to help me with the gardening club today!"
Here's the thing about Haerin: she's a hater by nature. She complains about everything. She once wrote a three-paragraph email to the principal about the cafeteria's "aggressive oatmeal consistency." She has a running list of things she dislikes, organized by category. It's in a Google Doc. She updates it weekly.
So when Danielle hands her a flyer—bright green, clip art of a sunflower, Comic Sans font (Comic Sans!)—and says "You should join!", Minji expects her to say "No thanks" and walk away. Maybe add a sarcastic comment about photosynthesis.
Instead, Haerin goes shy.
Her shoulders curl inward. Her hands come together in her lap. She looks at the flyer like it's a love letter, like Danielle just handed her a handwritten sonnet instead of a neon green advertisement for soil and fertilizer.
"I was thinking about it," she says. Then, quieter, almost to herself: "Don't worry, I'll help."
Minji has never seen this girl eat a vegetable in her life. She once watched Haerin pick peppers off a slice of pizza like she was defusing a bomb.
Denial is a river in Egypt, Haerin. You are a lesbian.
"You're the best!" Danielle's smile could power a small city. "I have to go—Hanni freaks out when she eats alone—but thank you!"
And then Danielle kisses her cheek.
Just a peck. Casual. Friendly. The kind of thing an Australian might do without thinking. A quick press of lips to skin, there and gone in half a second.
Haerin stops breathing.
Her face goes through seven distinct stages of panic in rapid succession: confusion, shock, disbelief, more confusion, a brief moment of what might be transcendence, and then full system failure. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth is slightly open. She looks like a computer that just received a command it cannot process.
Danielle bounces away, already waving at someone across the cafeteria, ponytail swinging, completely oblivious to the destruction in her wake.
The silence stretches. Haerin doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
"Yeah, because that's normal behavior," Minji says finally, breaking the spell.
"She's Australian." Haerin's voice is a thin wire, stretched tight. "She doesn't even mean it."
"And I'm the dense one."
Haerin kicks her again. Harder this time. Minji feels it even through the durability.
After classes end, Minji falls back into routine.
She ducks into an alley three blocks from school—the one with the dumpster that always smells like sour milk and the fire escape that creaks in C-sharp. Graffiti tags on the walls, a cracked window above, the distant sound of someone practicing trumpet badly. She shrugs off her backpack, pulls the suit from its hidden compartment—a waterproof pouch wedged behind a loose brick—and changes with practiced efficiency.
The fabric is cool against her skin, stretched tight over her shoulders, familiar as a second self. The mask settles over her face, and the world changes. Her senses sharpen. The smell of sour milk becomes almost unbearable. The trumpet sounds closer. The weight of the city settles on her shoulders like a familiar coat.
She texts Aunt Seulgi: starting rounds.
The reply comes immediately: Be home by 10. You have a quiz tomorrow.
Minji sighs. She can't do night shifts right now—grounded, ever since she came home looking like shit three weeks ago. (She got shot. A graze, technically. A bullet skimmed her ribs, left a burning line of red. But there was blood, and Aunt Seulgi had screamed, and Aunt Bae had to talk her down from banning superheroics entirely. "She's helping people," Aunt Bae had said, calm as always. "You knew what you signed up for when you agreed to raise her, even before all of this.")
The healing factor closed the wound in hours, but the memory lingered. So did the new rules.
Rule one: Don't die. Direct. Uncompromising. Aunt Seulgi made her repeat it five times before she was allowed to leave the house again.
Rule two: No one finds out who you are or where you live. (Haerin is the exception. She figured it out the day after the bite. Minji stopped trying to lie after that.)
Rule three: Be aware of your surroundings. (Even Spider-Sense can't fix stupid, according to Aunt Bae. She once walked into a pole while texting. The pole broke. She still hasn't lived it down.)
Rule four: Keep your grades up. Heroes have to be smart. No exceptions.
So far, so good.
Minji launches a web line and swings.
New York unfurls beneath her—a patchwork of light and shadow, traffic snarled at intersections like a knot that will never come undone, steam rising from manholes in ghostly plumes. The distant wail of a siren somewhere in the East Village. The smell of hot dogs and exhaust and something baking—bread, maybe, or pretzels. The wind pulls at her mask, whips through her hair where it escapes the suit's hood. She loves this part. The weightlessness. The speed. The way the city becomes a playground instead of a battlefield, a web of possibilities instead of a trap.
She's scanning for trouble—a mugging, a fire, someone in need—when she spots a familiar figure below.
Hanni Pham.
She's walking along a side street in the West Village, camera bag slung across her body like a weapon, backpack over one shoulder. Her phone is pressed to her ear, and her pace is fast, almost frantic, her sneakers slapping the pavement in a staccato rhythm. Even from three stories up, Minji can see the tension in her jaw, the way her free hand clenches and unclenches at her side.
Hanni turns into an alley.
Minji perches on a fire escape, hidden in the shadow of a water tower. The metal grate digs into her knees. Just for scientific purposes, she tells herself. Safety reasons. She's alone in an alley in New York. That's stupid. Someone has to watch.
"Please don't fire me. I really need the money."
Hanni's voice drifts up, thin and strained, like a violin string wound too tight. Minji's stomach tightens. She knows Hanni works part-time at the Daily Bugle—the most Spider-Girl-hating publication on the planet. Jameson's personal propaganda machine. His face is on the front page every day, scowling, pointing, calling her a menace and a freak and a danger to honest citizens.
"Sir, I promise by the end of this week, you'll have THE photo. Just give me more time."
A pause. Then a man's voice barks through the phone—loud enough for Minji to catch the edges, sharp and impatient. "No photo by Friday, you're done." Click.
Hanni lowers the phone. Stares at it. Her shoulders slump like someone cut the strings holding her up.
"Yeah, because who needs to buy a Nintendo Switch 2, right?" she mutters to the empty alley. "Pokopia isn't even that funny."
Minji stifles a laugh behind her mask, a hand clamped over her mouth. Hanni Pham is a Pokémon fan? Adorable. She files that away for later, next to the mental image of Hanni singing in the stairwell (on-key, and enthusiastic) and the way she doodles little stars on her notes during lectures.
But the guilt is already creeping in, cold and unwelcome. Jameson is her self-declared enemy. He's called her a freak, a menace, public enemy number one. And now his demands are squeezing Hanni—Hanni, who needs this job, who is probably saving up for something stupid like a video game or rent or groceries—and Minji is the reason. Because Hanni can't get the photo. Because Spider-Girl is too fast, too careful, too good at not being caught.
For a moment, Minji considers dropping down. Offering a photo. Just one. Enough to save Hanni's job. It would be so easy, she thinks. Land in front of her, strike a pose, let her get the shot. No one gets hurt.
Then a man steps into the alley.
He's tall, unshaven, wearing a hoodie despite the heat. The hood is up, shadowing his face. His hand is in his pocket, and there's something about the way he walks—too casual, too deliberate, like he's rehearsed this. Minji's Spider-Sense doesn't scream—not yet—but it whispers. A low, warning hum at the base of her skull, like a distant alarm she can't quite hear.
He pulls out a gun.
The metal catches the dim light, flashes once. Silver and deadly.
"Phone and purse." His voice is flat. Empty. The voice of someone who has done this before. "Shame to rob you, though. You're kinda cute—"
Everything changes.
Hanni freezes. Her hands go up, slow and shaky, like she's pushing against invisible water. Her phone clatters to the ground—a sharp crack of plastic on concrete. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a small, broken gasp. A tiny oh that barely escapes her lips.
Minji doesn't think.
She dives.
The landing is fast and brutal. Her fist connects with the man's jaw before he can blink—a satisfying crack of bone on bone. Her foot sweeps his legs out from under him. Four web lines fire in quick succession: one to rip the gun from his hand (it clatters away, spinning), one to pin his chest to the brick wall, two more to wrap his arms to his sides. He slams against the bricks with a grunt, a puff of dust, and then he's stuck. Struggling. Cursing. Completely helpless.
Minji is not an aggressive person. She likes to think. She dodges, defends, protects. She webs people to walls and waits for the police. But right now her blood is boiling. Her fists are still clenched. Her breathing is too fast, too loud in her own ears. She could kill him. She wants to kill him.
She doesn't.
Instead, she steps back. Rolls her shoulders. Forces her voice into something casual, something light, something that doesn't sound like she's imagining this man's face on a milk carton.
"Not so eager now, are we?"
The man wheezes, his cheek pressed against the bricks. "Please—I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to rob a girl at gunpoint?" Minji tilts her head. The mask hides her expression, but her voice drips with false curiosity, the kind teachers use when they already know you're lying. "That's funny. Because that's exactly what it looked like."
Behind her, Hanni exhales. A shaky, wet sound. Relief, maybe. Or the beginning of tears. Or both.
Minji's chest does something complicated. Something that feels like the moment before a fall, when your stomach drops out and you don't know if you're going to fly or crash. She doesn't turn around. Can't. If she turns around and sees Hanni Pham looking at her like she's something special—like she's a hero, like she's worth something—she might forget how to speak entirely.
"I'm calling the police," Hanni says. Her voice trembles, but it holds. It holds. "I—thank you. Thank you so much."
"No problem." Minji waves a hand. Casual. Easy. Like her heart isn't hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. "Friendly neighborhood Spider-Girl. You know how it is."
She webs the man's mouth shut—he was about to say something gross, she can feel it in her bones—and finally, finally turns around.
Big mistake.
Hanni is looking at her like she hung the moon. Like she's something miraculous. Her phone is on the ground, half-lit with the emergency dial screen. There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek from when she pressed herself against the wall. Her eyes are wide, shining, fixed on Minji's mask. Her lips are parted. She looks like she's just seen God, or maybe a ghost, or maybe something in between.
Focus, Minji tells herself. You're in costume. She doesn't know it's you. Act normal.
"You're so much cooler than the pictures," Hanni says. The words come out soft, almost reverent.
"The pictures make me look bad." Minji shrugs, grateful that the mask hides her blush. "Jameson hates me."
"He hates everyone." Hanni blurts it out, then flushes, a pink stain spreading across her cheeks. "I mean. I work for him. Not because I agree with him. I don't think you're a menace. I think you're—" She stops, looks down, looks back up. "Sorry. I almost got shot. That's my excuse."
"You don't need an excuse."
Minji's voice comes out softer than she intended. Softer than safe. Softer than smart. She clears her throat, looks away. "You should get out of here. Before his friends show up."
"Right. Yes. I will."
But Hanni doesn't move.
She's looking at Spider-Girl. Really looking. Her gaze travels from the mask to the shoulders to the way Minji is standing—weight on one hip, arms loose, head tilted slightly to the left. The same way she stands in AP Lit when she's waiting for the bell to ring.
And then Hanni's expression shifts.
It's subtle. A flicker. A narrowing of the eyes. A sudden stillness in her body, like a hunter catching a scent. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
She knows, Minji thinks. Her heart stops. No. She can't. There's no way.
But Hanni is still staring. At the way Minji cracked her neck before throwing the punch—a habit she has in AP Lit when the teacher calls on her and she's not paying attention. At the way the mask bunches slightly at the left temple—exactly where Minji's hair always falls out of her ponytail, exactly where she tucks it back with the same nervous finger motion Hanni just saw her do in third period today, right there, right in front of her. At the voice—strained lower than usual, rougher at the edges, but still. Still her.
Hanni's brain pieces it together in half a second.
Same body type. Same nervous habit. Same sarcastic drawl when she said "Not so eager now, are we?"—the same one Minji uses when she's pretending not to care about something. The same one she uses when Haerin says something ridiculous and Minji wants to laugh but won't give her the satisfaction.
Oh, Hanni thinks. Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
Minji Kim. Two rows behind her in AP Lit. Dropped an entire pencil case once because Hanni laughed at a joke—a joke that wasn't even that funny, but Hanni laughed anyway, and Minji's hands forgot how to work. Looks away every time Hanni catches her staring. The girl who can barely form a sentence around her—that Minji is Spider-Girl.
Hanni's heart pounds. Not from the almost-robbery anymore. From the magnitude of what's in front of her. Her job. Her future. A photo that could save her career. And the fear of being fired—the cold, gnawing dread that's been living in her chest for weeks, keeping her up at night, making her stomach churn—transforms into something else entirely. Something sharper. More calculating.
"Are you okay?" Spider-Girl steps closer. Concern bleeds through the masked voice, genuine and warm. "You're staring."
Because I'm piecing together six months of your weird behavior, Hanni doesn't say. Instead, she blinks. Makes her face go soft. Grateful. Plays the damsel she just was. It's not hard—she is grateful, genuinely. Spider-Girl saved her life. But underneath the gratitude is something else. A plan. A terrible, necessary plan.
"I'm fine." Her voice wavers just enough. "Thank you. You saved my life."
"Just doing my job." Spider-Girl turns to swing away. "Stay out of alleys. Basic New York rule."
"Wait."
Spider-Girl pauses. Hanni sees the tension in her shoulders—the way they hitch up, just slightly, toward her ears. She's scared of being recognized, Hanni realizes. Good. That fear is useful.
"Can I take your picture?" Hanni holds up her camera—she never dropped it. The strap was around her neck the whole time, a lifeline she didn't even notice. "Just one? I work for the Bugle, but—" She laughs, self-deprecating, a sound that's half real and half performance. "Jameson would kill me if he knew I was asking nicely. I just want to remember this. The person who saved me."
Spider-Girl hesitates. Hanni watches the internal battle play out in real time: say no, swing away, be safe versus she almost died, one photo won't hurt, it's Hanni. The muscles in her jaw work. Her hands curl into fists and uncurl.
"Fine," Spider-Girl says finally. "One. Fast."
Click.
Hanni doesn't even look through the lens. She's been framing this shot since the second she knew the truth. Spider-Girl mid-turn, the city behind her, a web line already firing from her wrist. Action. Drama. Proof. The lighting is perfect—golden hour, the sun catching the edge of the mask. She couldn't have planned it better.
"Thank you." Hanni's smile is real—just not for the reason Minji thinks.
Spider-Girl nods once and swings up into the night, disappearing over the rooftops like she was never there.
From the rooftop, Minji watches Hanni take one last look up. A strange expression on her face—something Minji can't quite read. Something that looks almost like guilt, or maybe resolve. Then Hanni bends down, picks up her phone, and walks out of the alley, pressing it to her ear again.
Minji waits until Hanni is on the main street, surrounded by people, before she lets herself breathe.
The air is cold and sharp. Her hands are shaking. Adrenaline, she tells herself. Just adrenaline.
She thinks you're cool. She said you were cooler than the pictures.
"Yeah, well," Minji mutters, watching Hanni disappear around a corner, her ponytail bouncing with each step. "She also said she needs a photo by Friday or she's fired."
The math clicks into place. Hanni needs Spider-Girl. Needs to find her. Photograph her. Deliver her to a man who has literally called Minji a "menace to society" on live television, who has a framed photo of Spider-Girl on his desk with a dart through it (probably).
Which means Hanni is going to be looking for her.
Which means Minji is going to have to be found.
"Why is my life like this?"
She sits on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the drop. The city hums below her—sirens in the distance, laughter from a rooftop party three blocks away, the endless rumble of traffic like the city's heartbeat. She pulls out her phone.
Three messages from Haerin.
Haerin: COME OVER
Haerin: RIGHT NOW
Haerin: I DID SOMETHING SO BAD AT GARDENING CLUB
Haerin: I'M ALREADY HOME
Haerin: I RAN
Minji frowns. Types back: What happened
Haerin: I'LL TELL YOU WHEN YOU GET HERE
Haerin: BUT BRING CHOCOLATE MILK
Haerin: THE GOOD KIND
Haerin: I'M IN CRISIS
Minji sighs. The sound is long and heavy, carrying all the weight of the last hour. She stands up, stretches her shoulders, and launches a web line toward Haerin's apartment.
Twenty minutes later, Minji is sprawled across Haerin's bedroom floor, a pillow under her head and two cartons of chocolate milk on the carpet between them.
The room is small and cluttered—stacks of books on every surface (mystery novels, a few romance paperbacks with the spines cracked, a textbook on marine biology that Haerin has never once opened). A half-finished puzzle on the desk—some kind of landscape, mostly sky, missing several pieces. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling that Haerin insists are "ambient lighting" and not "a cry for help." The window is cracked open, letting in the sounds of the city and the smell of someone's dinner cooking three floors down—garlic, maybe, and something with tomatoes.
Haerin is pacing. Her face is still red, blotchy in that way that only happens when you're truly embarrassed. There's a small bruise forming on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow. She's been pacing for five minutes, wearing a path in the carpet.
"Okay," Minji says, taking a sip of her chocolate milk. "Start from the beginning."
"Gardening club," Haerin says. She stops pacing. Starts again. "I went. Like I said I would. Danielle showed me how to plant tomatoes. It was fine. Normal. I was being a normal person."
"I doubt that."
"Shut up. Then—" Haerin stops pacing. Her voice cracks, just slightly. "Then she looked at me, and she smiled, and she said, 'Thanks, babe, you're a natural at this.'"
Minji's eyebrows shoot up. "She called you babe?"
"BABE. MINJI. TO MY FACE." Haerin's hands fly up in exasperation. "BABE. LIKE I'M SOMEONE SHE—LIKE WE'RE—"
"And what did you do?"
"I said—" Haerin closes her eyes. Her whole body tenses. "I said, 'Thanks, you too.'"
Minji stares. The chocolate milk carton hovers halfway to her mouth.
"And then," Haerin continues, her voice climbing in pitch and speed, "I turned around to walk away, and I walked STRAIGHT into the shed door. The metal one. With the handle."
She points to the bruise on her forehead, jabbing at it like evidence.
"Everyone saw. Danielle asked if I was okay. And I said—" Haerin's voice goes high and strangled, the sound of a person who has already died of embarrassment and is now haunting her own life. "'I'm fine! I just love doors! They're so... door-shaped!'"
Minji wheezes. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but the laugh escapes anyway—loud, uncontrollable, echoing off the walls. It's the kind of laugh that hurts, that makes your stomach ache and your eyes water.
"It's not funny!" Haerin hisses, but her own lips are twitching.
"It's incredibly funny." Minji is crying now. Tears streaming down her face. "'Door-shaped.' Haerin. DOOR-SHAPED."
"I panicked!" Haerin buries her face in her hands, but she's laughing too now, a reluctant, helpless sound. "My brain left my body. I was running on pure terror."
"Pure terror," Minji repeats, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "That's one word for it."
"I want to be hit by a bus."
"A bus wouldn't fix this level of emotional damage."
"Then a train."
"You'd survive and have to explain it to Danielle in the hospital."
Haerin groans, long and despairing, and flops onto her bed face-down. Her voice is muffled by the comforter. "I told her I loved doors. I LOVE DOORS, MINJI."
"You're a disaster."
"I KNOW."
Minji is about to make another joke—something about architectural appreciation—when her phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
She picks it up. The screen glows in the dim light of the fairy lights.
A photo. Spider-Girl mid-swing from the alley. The city blurred behind her, a smear of gold and gray. The web line still glistening, caught mid-flight, frozen in time. Unmistakable.
Below it: Nice suit, Minji. Lunch tomorrow. Cafeteria. Don't be late. — H.P.
Minji's blood turns to ice.
The room feels suddenly smaller. The fairy lights seem too bright, too cheerful. Haerin's breathing, her laughter, the distant sound of traffic—all of it fades into static. There's just the phone. Just the words. Just the photo.
"What?" Haerin sits up, noticing her face. "What is it?"
Another text: You crack your neck when you're annoyed. Your mask bunches at the left temple because you keep tucking hair that isn't there. And you say "by the way" exactly the same way in AP Lit. See you at lunch.
No threat. No ultimatum. Just the quiet, devastating implication: I know. And you know I know.
Minji types with shaking fingers: How long have you known
Three dots appear. Then:
About three seconds after you said "Not so eager now, are we?" The voice gave it away. The rest was just confirmation.
You're blackmailing me.
Look, I hate this as much as you do. Possibly more. I cried a little. But I also really like eating, so. Here's the deal: you show up tomorrow, act normal, help me get one photo for Jameson, and I never tell a soul who you are. Ever. Deal? ☀️
Minji stares at the ceiling. The plaster has a crack in it that looks like a lightning bolt. She's never noticed it before. She notices it now because she can't look at the phone anymore.
Her Spider-Sense is completely silent.
Because she's not in danger.
She's just been caught.
"So," Haerin says slowly, reading over her shoulder. Her voice is quiet now. Careful in a different way. "Your crush is blackmailing you."
There's no grin. No teasing lilt. Just the weight of what's actually happening.
Minji swallows. "Yeah."
"Minji." Haerin sets the phone down on the bed. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes aren't joking anymore. "This isn't funny. She has a photo. She knows who you are. She works for the guy who wants you arrested."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you saved her life. Twenty minutes ago. And she thanked you by—" Haerin gestures at the phone. "This."
Minji stares at the ceiling. The crack. The lightning bolt. Her chest feels tight, like someone is sitting on her ribs, pressing down.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't know." Haerin's voice is softer now. She shifts on the bed, moves to sit on the floor next to Minji. Their shoulders brush. "But you're not doing it alone. Okay?"
Minji nods. Doesn't trust her voice.
"Okay," Haerin repeats. Then, after a beat: "You still want the chocolate milk?"
Minji almost laughs. Almost. The sound gets stuck in her throat somewhere between a sob and a sigh.
"Yeah," she says. "Hand it over."
Haerin tosses her the carton. Doesn't grin. Just watches her with something that looks like worry.
Minji drinks. The chocolate milk is cold and sweet and ridiculous. It's the most normal thing in the world, and that's exactly why she needs it.
She stares at the photo on her phone.
Hanni Pham knows who she is.
And tomorrow, at lunch, Minji has to sit across from her and pretend she doesn't want to die.
Great.