The city was dead.
At least, that's what it felt like. The streets that had once been packed with honking cars, bustling workers, and the constant hum of life were now barren, blanketed in an eerie silence that never used to exist in New York.
Buildings stood as hollowed-out husks of their former selves, their glass shattered, their walls blackened by fires long extinguished. Every street corner was littered with abandoned vehicles, their doors left hanging open, their owners either dead or worse.
The air carried the lingering scent of smoke and rot, thick with decay, but beneath it, there was something else—something metallic, something sickly. The stench of Goblin gas still clung to the city like a curse, long after its initial release.
The entire city was under quarantine, completely shut off from the rest of the world. Military had made attempts to take back the city, but all attempts had gone unsuccessful. Norman Osborn hadn't been seen since the early days of the outbreak, and so far, there was seemingly nothing that could be done for these people.
There was no hope.
Felicia Hardy moved quickly through the empty pharmacy, her footsteps soft against the dirty tile floor. Shelves had already been raided months ago, their contents either stolen or trampled underfoot. What little remained was either spoiled, useless, or not even worth taking. The real reason she was here wasn't food—it was medicine.
Aunt May's condition was getting worse.
Felicia had barely managed to get her out of the hospital five months ago, just as the city had collapsed in on itself. In the chaos, she had taken whatever she could from the hospital—feeding tubes, IV hydration packs, anything to keep May stable. But supplies were running low, and every day that passed, she feared she wouldn't be able to keep her alive much longer.
She tightened her grip on her bag, moving down the aisles with sharp, careful eyes. Every sound in this city could mean life or death, and she couldn't afford to make a mistake. The Goblins were always lurking somewhere in the distance, and if they found her—
She shook the thought away, focusing.
She scanned the shelves, fingers trailing over dust-covered bottles, hoping to find something useful. Most of the painkillers were gone, but there were still a few bottles of over-the-counter meds that might help. She shoved them into her bag, her heartbeat steady but tense.
Then she paused.
Something wasn't right.
A sound—faint, distant, but growing closer. Footsteps.
Felicia's entire body stiffened.
The front doors of the pharmacy swung open, the bell above them jingling in the oppressive quiet. She barely had time to react before she slipped behind a shelf, pressing herself into the shadows, heart pounding against her ribs.
Two men stepped inside, their voices breaking the silence.
"God, I hate this part of the city," one of them grumbled. His boots scuffed against the tile as he kicked over a can, letting it roll lazily across the floor.
"Then why the hell did we come out here?" the second man asked, his voice rough, impatient.
"Because," the first one said, "these abandoned places still have shit we can use. Just gotta dig a little."
Felicia didn't move. She barely breathed.
People were just as dangerous as the monsters that roamed the streets—sometimes worse. The city had turned into a wasteland, and those left behind had to make choices. Some had turned to scavenging, just like her. Others had turned to something much darker.
The men kept talking, their voices casual, but there was an edge beneath them, something careless, something reckless.
Felicia bit her lip, willing them to hurry up and leave.
But they didn't. Instead, they started making noise, knocking things over, laughing as they joked with each other. One of them grabbed a bag of stale chips off the shelf, crunching into them loudly.
"Hey," the first guy said, his voice carrying a cruel amusement, "you ever wonder what happened to all the poor bastards who got left behind?"
The second one scoffed. "Please. Either the Goblins tore 'em apart, or they're hiding like rats. Not like it matters anymore."
Felicia swallowed hard, gripping her bag tighter.
Five months. Five months of running, hiding, stealing, surviving. She had never cried much as a kid, not even when her mother had disappeared from her life. But in the months since the Goblin's attack, she had cried more than she ever thought possible.
For her father, wherever he was.
For Peter.
The Goblin had made sure the whole world knew what he had done. He had taken great joy in telling everyone that Spider-Man was dead, that he had killed him himself. The image of Norman Osborn standing on that broadcast, the city burning behind him, had been burned into her mind. She had refused to believe it at first. Had refused to accept it.
But Peter never came back.
He died alone.
And she hadn't been able to do a damn thing to stop it.
She had promised him he wasn't alone, that she'd be there for him. But in the end, all she had left of him was the aching emptiness in her chest.
Felicia clenched her jaw, pushing down the emotions clawing their way up. She couldn't think about that right now.
The men were still here, still laughing, still wasting time.
She needed them to leave.
But then, one of them stopped.
"...You hear that?"
Felicia's breath hitched.
A pause.
The second man sighed. "Dude, you're paranoid."
"No, I swear. Thought I heard something."
His boots scraped against the floor as he turned his head, scanning the store.
Felicia pressed herself deeper into the shadows, barely daring to move.
If they found her...
She inhaled slowly, silently, fingers twitching at her sides.
A deep, guttural roar shatters the quiet, vibrating through the broken streets like a warning. Felicia's breath catches in her throat.
The two men freeze, their carefree banter vanishing in an instant. One of them swears under his breath, and the other grips his makeshift weapon—a rusty crowbar—tighter.
"Shit," one mutters. "We should've known better than to be out this close to dark."
Without hesitation, they abandon their looting and bolt, their hurried footsteps echoing against the cracked pavement. The door swings shut behind them with a hollow thud, leaving Felicia alone once more.
She exhales, relieved. If the goblins are hunting, then the last thing she needs is to deal with other desperate survivors. People, she's learned, can be just as dangerous as the monsters prowling the city.
But that relief is short-lived.
Felicia scans the dusty shelves, her fingers tightening around the straps of her backpack. The meager supplies here won't do much good. Aunt May needs medicine, and none of what's left in this abandoned gas station will help her. The hospital would have what she needs, but that place is crawling with goblins. A suicide mission.
She bites her lip, pushing the thought away.
There's no time to dwell on it now. She grabs whatever food she can fit into her bag—cans of soup, a few protein bars, anything that isn't expired—and hoists it onto her back.
Then, cautiously, she creeps to the shattered doorway.
Felicia presses her body against the rusted frame, peering out into the street. The city is a corpse of what it once was—abandoned cars litter the roads, their windows smashed, their doors hanging open like broken jaws. Trash and debris clog the gutters. Storefronts are shattered, their contents long since ransacked. She listens, straining for any sound beyond the distant echoes of the city's misery.
Nothing.
Keeping low, she slips from the gas station, pressing herself behind a rusted car. The metal is cold beneath her fingers as she steadies herself. Her heart pounds in her chest.
She glances toward the horizon, where the sun has nearly disappeared beyond the jagged silhouettes of the ruined skyline. The sky is bruised with shades of deep orange and purple, the last dying light casting long, twisted shadows over the streets.
The roar from earlier lingers in her mind, an unshakable reminder that she's not alone out here.
But the streets remain empty, at least for now.
Felicia takes a breath, steadies herself, and begins the long journey back to Peter's house.
When she arrives, the house is eerily quiet, save for the soft beeping of the machines keeping Aunt May alive.
Felicia wastes no time, slipping off her backpack and heading straight for May's bedside. The older woman remains unconscious, her breathing steady but weak.
Carefully, Felicia replaces the IV bag, checking the line to make sure it's flowing properly. Then she wipes May's face with a damp cloth, the same way she would with Peter when he'd come back from a fight and needed her to help take care of him.
Felicia isn't good at this kind of thing. Taking care of people. But May took her in when she had nowhere else to go. She gave Felicia a place to stay, treated her with kindness when the world hadn't. It's the least she can do.
As she works, her thoughts drift.
Peter and his aunt couldn't have been more different from the life Felicia had known. Where her father was distant, always lost in his own world of whatever it was he was up to at night, May and Peter had been warm. Welcoming. Even after everything, even when she didn't deserve it.
Felicia swallows hard, pushing those thoughts away as she finishes up.
Needing a moment, she steps out of May's room and wanders upstairs, her boots making soft creaks against the old wooden steps.
Peter's room is just as he left it.
She runs her fingers along his desk, brushing away the thin layer of dust that's begun to settle. The room still smells faintly like him—old books and laundry detergent, a scent that makes her chest tighten.
Her eyes catch on a framed photo beside his bed.
It's Peter, younger, grinning beside an older man at what looks like a science fair. She picks it up, tracing her thumb over Peter's stupid, nerdy smile.
A small, bittersweet laugh escapes her.
Even in the middle of an apocalypse, she can still picture him rambling on about some dumb old movie she's never heard of.
But then the ache creeps in.
Her throat tightens, her grip on the frame trembling.
Peter is gone.
She'll never see him again. Never hear his voice, never roll her eyes at his dorky jokes.
She squeezes her eyes shut, but it doesn't stop the tears from burning at the corners of her eyes.
Felicia Hardy doesn't cry.
But tonight...once again, she does.
She curls up on Peter's empty bed, clutching the frame to her chest, and lets sleep take her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The screams wake her.
Felicia jolts upright, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She's on her feet before she even realizes what's happening, her instincts taking over as she rushes to the window.
Outside, the streets are bathed in darkness, but movement catches her eye.
Two people—a boy and a girl—are running for their lives.
Felicia's breath catches.
Then she sees what's chasing them.
A goblin.
Even in the dim light, she can see the monstrous figure—a hulking, grotesque mass of twisted flesh and unnatural limbs. It moves like a rabid animal, its elongated limbs clawing at the pavement as it barrels toward its prey.
It roars, the sound rattling Felicia's bones, and with terrifying ease, it sends a car flying across the street, metal crunching against concrete.
Felicia swallows hard.
She's seen what these things do.
They don't just kill.
They tear, they devour, they leave nothing behind but bloodstains and shredded remains.
The boy and girl vanish into a nearby house, the goblin smashing through the door right after them, disappearing from view.
Felicia curses under her breath.
Her grip tightens into fists as she tries to think.
She doesn't have to do anything.
She could stay here, wait for the screaming to stop, and go back to surviving. That's the smart thing to do.
But she knows exactly what Peter would have done.
And the thought makes her laugh bitterly, because there isn't even a question about it.
"Stupid, self-sacrificing idiot," she mutters.
Felicia turns away from the window and heads downstairs.
She strides toward the cabinet near the front door and pulls it open. Inside, resting against the wood, is a shotgun.
She stole it from an abandoned police car weeks ago, but she's never actually used it.
Her hands are shaking as she grabs it, her fingers fumbling with the shells as she tries to load them the way she's seen in movies. A few drop to the floor, rolling across the old wooden boards. She exhales sharply, forcing herself to calm down, and loads the last round into place.
The gun is still heavier than she expects.
She grips it tightly, feeling the cold steel against her palm.
Then, without another thought, she steps toward the door.
And into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Felicia stepped into the darkened street, shotgun gripped tight, her breath slow and measured. The neighborhood, once alive with the sounds of laughter, traffic, and the hum of everyday life, now lay in ruins—hollowed-out buildings, shattered glass, overturned cars. It was as if the city itself had been abandoned by hope.
She scanned the shadows, searching for any sign of movement, any lurking shape that might mean she wasn't alone. Goblins rarely hunted alone. If one was here, more would follow.
Nothing.
Then, a scream tore through the silence.
Felicia stiffened. It was the girl from before. A desperate, terrified sound that sent a chill up her spine.
The goblin was still hunting.
Steeling herself, she moved swiftly, her boots crunching over debris as she crossed the wrecked threshold of the house. The door was splintered, barely hanging onto its frame, and deeper inside, another hole gaped wide, leading into the backyard. She followed the destruction, her heartbeat a drum against her ribs.
"Come on," she muttered under her breath, half a plea, half a challenge.
She stepped into the backyard, where a fence had been completely caved in. More signs of the chase. More reminders of just how powerful these things were.
"More clues. Yay," she muttered, her own voice hollow in the dark. Sarcasm did little to stop the dread creeping into her bones.
She pressed forward, following the wreckage into the next house—this one just as broken as the last. Moving carefully, she stepped through the ruined entryway.
And then she saw them.
The boy stood between the goblin and the girl, clutching a broken chair like it was a sword. His hands shook, but he held his ground.
"Get back! Stay away! Please! Please, go!" His voice cracked with terror.
The goblin sneered, its grotesque features twisted in amusement. Then, with a single swipe, it batted him aside like a ragdoll. His body slammed into the wall with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the floor. Blood smeared against the cracked wallpaper where his head struck.
The girl screamed.
Felicia didn't think. She moved.
She raised the shotgun and fired.
The blast exploded through the goblin's skull, the force knocking her back a step. Her arms trembled from the recoil, ears ringing, but she held her ground.
The monster howled, writhing on the ground, thick green ichor pouring from the wound. It twisted in agony, clawing at the floor, trying to rise.
Felicia pumped the shotgun, aimed again, and pulled the trigger.
The second shot tore through its face.
The goblin spasmed once, then stilled.
Felicia kept the barrel trained on its unmoving corpse, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
It shouldn't have been that easy.
These things were fast, brutal, relentless. She'd gotten lucky. More than lucky—this one had been alone.
That wouldn't last.
She turned to the girl, who was still shaking, her face pale and tear-streaked.
"It won't be coming back," Felicia said, voice rough. "So get him up and get the hell out of here."
The girl just stared at her, wide-eyed.
"What?" she whispered.
Felicia frowned, gesturing sharply toward the unconscious boy. "Did you not hear me? Get him up and go—"
Then, from the distance, a howl shattered the night.
Felicia froze.
Another roar, closer this time.
Then another.
And another.
Her stomach dropped.
The gunshot. The goblin's dying screams.
They had heard.
Felicia turned back to the girl, urgency sharp in her tone. "Help me lift him—now!"
But the girl wasn't moving.
She stood rooted in place, her entire body trembling. Her lips parted, but no words came out, just short, gasping breaths.
"I—I'm sorry."
Felicia's chest tightened. "What?"
The girl turned.
And ran.
"Wait! What the hell are you—?!"
Too late.
Felicia clenched her teeth. No time to be angry. No time for anything but survival.
She dropped the shotgun and grabbed the boy's arm, trying to hoist him up. He was deadweight, his unconscious body dragging against the floor.
Outside, the pounding of monstrous footsteps shook the earth.
"Come on!" she gritted out, pulling with everything she had. But he was too heavy. She tried dragging him, her legs straining, muscles burning.
Then—
A scream.
The girl.
Felicia knew, without seeing, that it was already too late for her.
Terror gripped her, but she didn't stop. She yanked the boy's limp form up the stairs, every second wasted another second closer to death.
Outside, shadows moved.
Goblins. More than one.
A grotesque chorus of growls and screeches filled the air as they reached the house.
Felicia reached the top of the stairs, breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes darted wildly, searching for anything—anywhere.
Then she saw it.
A string hanging from the ceiling.
An attic.
She lunged for it, yanking hard. The stairs creaked as they unfolded, and she wasted no time pulling the boy up with her, her arms screaming in protest.
She slipped, nearly losing her grip, her footing barely holding as the sound of shattering windows echoed below.
They were inside.
Felicia forced the boy up the last few steps, then hauled herself after him, scrambling into the attic just as something crashed into the walls below.
She grabbed the attic door and pulled, her fingers slick with sweat, her pulse hammering against her skull.
The moment it clicked shut, the house erupted with chaos.
The goblins tore through the rooms below, knocking over furniture, clawing through debris. Their howls rattled the walls, monstrous and guttural, an orchestra of nightmares.
Felicia pressed a hand over her mouth, heart slamming against her ribs.
The attic was dark, the air thick with dust, her own breathing deafening in the silence.
Below, the goblins searched, sniffing the air.
Waiting.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her pulse to slow.
Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't make a sound.
They were monsters.
But they were patient.
And so, all she could do was wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hours passed.
Felicia sat in the darkness, every muscle wound tight, listening to the guttural growls and heavy footsteps as the creatures stalked through the ruined house below. Every scrape of claws against the floorboards sent a fresh wave of tension through her spine.
But eventually, the sounds faded. The goblins, growing impatient, moved on in search of easier prey.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe—really breathe.
The air in the attic was thick with dust, and her throat burned from holding back coughs. She shifted, rolling her shoulders before crawling over to the unconscious boy.
With a quick slap to his face, she tried to rouse him.
Nothing.
She slapped him again—harder this time.
He sucked in a sharp breath and jolted upright, eyes wide and frantic. His head whipped around, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. "W-Where am I? Who are you?"
Felicia sat back on her heels, unimpressed. "Attic. Felicia. Question time's over. Now it's my turn—what the hell were you doing running around out there? Trying to get yourself killed?"
The boy blinked at her, still dazed. He reached up, wincing as his fingers brushed the fresh bruise on his temple. "I—uh—" He swallowed, as if trying to pull his thoughts together. "I was looking for food. For our group. Amy and I were—"
His breath hitched.
"Amy."
His gaze darted around the attic, panic rising. "Where is she?"
Felicia crossed her arms, her voice flat. "Took off the second she heard those things coming. Guess she didn't care all that much about what happened to you."
The boy's shoulders slumped. He exhaled a weak, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Maybe... maybe she got away then."
Felicia scoffed. "Yeah. Probably made it about five feet before those things tore her apart. I mean, she heard them coming and just ran right out there. It was stupid. And selfish."
He didn't respond to that. "I didn't know her that well, but still."
Felicia watched him for a moment, then sighed. "What's your name?"
"Conner."
She tapped her foot against the wooden floor, considering him. "Alright, Conner. You said you were with a group. Are they well-armed? Got supplies? Medicine?"
Conner hesitated. His brow furrowed, like he wasn't sure how much to say. Felicia could see the gears turning in his head—was she trustworthy? Did she save his life out of kindness or because she wanted something?
He must've decided that, at the very least, she wasn't an immediate threat.
"It's a big group," he admitted. "Mostly people who got left behind. Some stragglers from around the city, some who missed the evacuation buses. Even a few military guys who stayed behind. We've got weapons. Enough to defend ourselves. As for medicine... I don't know. We've got a medical tent, some nurses, a couple of doctors." He shrugged. "That's about all I know."
Felicia narrowed her eyes. If what he said was true, this could be the opportunity she'd been waiting for.
"How far?"
"Couple miles. We're holed up in an underground subway station." Conner hesitated. "You... you can come with me. If you want."
Felicia didn't answer right away. Her mind was already spinning through possibilities. She couldn't take May out there in her condition, not on a 'maybe.' She had to see this place for herself first—make sure it was as safe as Conner claimed.
She didn't know him. He could be leading her into a trap. Could be taking her straight to a group of people worse than the monsters outside.
But what choice did she have?
"Yeah," she finally said. "Okay. I'll go." She stood, dusting off her pants. "But first, I need to make a stop."
She'd return to Peter's house. Replace May's IV. Feed her. Make sure she was stable.
Then, and only then, would she see if this so-called safe haven was worth the risk.
Because if it wasn't, she'd find another way.
She always did.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Felicia had told Conner she'd meet him back at the house after taking care of May, not that she told him what she'd be doing. Honestly, she half-expected him to be gone by the time she returned. She wouldn't have blamed him—she was a stranger, a risk, and in this world, trust was more dangerous than the creatures lurking in the dark.
But he was still there.
She found him pacing near the broken window, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes flicking toward the street every few seconds. The way his shoulders relaxed when he saw her almost made her feel guilty for doubting him. Almost.
With a bag of supplies slung over her shoulder and fresh shells loaded into the shotgun, they set off toward his so-called safe haven.
Felicia made sure to stay behind him, never beside. It was easier to watch him that way—easier to keep her thoughts from drifting. May had everything she needed for now, but it wasn't enough. She needed more supplies, more medicine. More certainty. That was the only reason Felicia was here.
Nothing more.
The city was silent as they moved through its ruins, the occasional gust of wind kicking up loose paper and ash. Skeletons of burnt-out cars lined the roads, their frames rusted and abandoned, remnants of a time when people thought they still had a chance.
"So..." Conner's voice broke the silence. "You got any family?"
Felicia didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on their surroundings, her fingers curled tight around the shotgun's grip.
Conner cleared his throat. "I mean, you don't have to talk about it. Just, y'know... figured I'd ask."
Felicia sighed. "Not sure." It wasn't a lie. When she returned to her Father's home after the city fell, all she found was silence and dust. No body. No note. Just... nothing.
Conner nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did.
"Also, shut up," she muttered. "They could hear you."
He let out a low chuckle, but obeyed, adjusting the strap of his own bag as they pressed on.
By the time they reached the entrance of the subway station, Felicia's gut was tight with unease. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, scanning the darkness below. Her fingers twitched near the trigger.
A trap?
She wouldn't have been surprised.
"You first," she said, nodding toward the steps.
Conner glanced back at her, raising an eyebrow. "Are you that worried I'll do something?"
"Just being smart."
He huffed. "You know, you're kinda paranoid."
"Not sure how being smart makes me paranoid, but sure. Now go." She said, motioning with her shotgun.
Conner opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head with a smirk and started down the stairs.
At the base of the station, the air was damp and stale, thick with the scent of mildew and unwashed bodies. Two flashlights flickered to life ahead of them, the beams cutting through the darkness like knives.
"Stop!" A voice barked. "Drop the weapon. Now."
Felicia's jaw tightened. She could take them—she knew she could—but she had no idea how many others were waiting beyond the light. She exhaled sharply through her nose, then lowered the shotgun to the ground and raised her hands.
"She's with me," Conner interjected, his voice steadier than she expected. "I was authorized for a scouting trip. I signed out—check the log. Name's Conner Tragar."
One of the guards—burly, buzz-cut, with a permanent scowl—grunted and disappeared into one of the train cars. The other kept his weapon trained on them, eyes cold and calculating.
Felicia fought the urge to shift her weight. She hated being cornered.
Minutes passed. Then the first guard returned, nodding to his partner. "He checks out."
"You're late," the second guard said, finally lowering his gun. "Cut-off was hours ago. You're lucky something didn't rip you apart out there."
Conner chuckled lightly. "Yeah, lucky."
The first guard bent down and picked up Felicia's shotgun, inspecting it before shaking his head. "This stays with us."
Felicia bristled. "That's mine."
"Not anymore. Any weapon found outside goes straight to the vault. We don't need civvies running around shooting themselves or each other."
Felicia clenched her teeth, but she wasn't stupid enough to push it. She'd get it back. One way or another.
"Are we done?" she asked, voice flat.
The guard sighed, then finally stepped aside, opening the train car door. "Move."
Felicia followed Conner through. The interior of the subway cars was dimly lit by strings of weak, flickering bulbs. The stale air was thick with the smell of sweat, dirt, and desperation.
People lined the walls, wrapped in filthy blankets, their faces gaunt and hollow-eyed. Some sat in clusters, whispering in hushed tones. Others simply stared at nothing, lost in the kind of exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep.
Felicia's stomach turned.
Peter fought so hard to keep this city standing. He bled for it, sacrificed for it. If he could see what had become of it now... she wasn't sure he'd ever forgive himself.
Conner led her further in, past the makeshift camps, the piles of rationed supplies, the dim glow of a small fire burning in a rusted barrel. He walked with a casual ease, offering nods to a few familiar faces, flashing that same crooked smirk that probably made people believe things weren't as bad as they actually were.
Felicia saw through it.
"It's not much," he admitted, finally stopping near an empty corner. "But it's safe. And it's all we've got for now."
Felicia crossed her arms, watching him. "You say that like you're trying to convince me."
Conner chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I am. I mean, I know you've got that whole 'lone wolf' thing going on, and I figure I should get ahead of the inevitable 'I don't need anyone' speech."
Felicia raised an eyebrow. "It definitely beats running around out there."
"Y-Yeah." Conner said, rubbing his arm.
Felicia huffed, shifting her weight as she scanned the dimly lit subway car. It checked out—more or less. The place was cramped, dirty, and reeked of unwashed bodies, but it was safe. At least safer than the streets. That much was obvious.
The problem was May.
Even if this place was secure, even if they had supplies, she had no clue how she was supposed to get May out here. The thought alone made her stomach twist.
Conner, watching her carefully, exhaled and softened his tone. "Look... I know it's been rough out there. But you don't have to do it alone anymore. You can stay here. Get some rest."
Felicia didn't answer.
Because the truth was, she didn't know how to.
Then—
"Felicia?"
She turned sharply, breath catching in her throat.
That voice.
It was familiar in a way that made her chest tighten, a sound she hadn't heard in what felt like lifetimes.
Now, it was different. Weaker. Fragile. Like it had been stripped down to nothing but raw desperation.
Felicia's eyes landed on her, and for a second, she thought she was seeing a ghost.
"Stacy...?" Her voice came out quieter than she expected. "You're... alive?"
Gwen Stacy stood in front of her, but she wasn't the Gwen Felicia remembered.
Her hair hung in uneven, greasy strands, framing a face that had lost the softness it once held. Her eyes, once bright and sharp, were darker now—hollow in a way that made Felicia's stomach twist. Her skin was smeared with dirt, her clothes ragged, hanging off her frame like they belonged to someone else.
But then—just for a second—something flickered in her gaze. A spark. A tiny, fragile thing.
Hope.
Before Felicia could react, Gwen gripped her arms, fingers digging in as if trying to ground herself in something real.
"Please..." Gwen's voice trembled, her lips parting as if the words physically hurt to say. "Tell me—" She swallowed hard, eyes searching Felicia's face for something, anything. "Have you—"
Her breath hitched.
Tears, unbidden and unchecked, slipped down her grime-covered cheeks. She barely seemed to notice.
"Have you seen Peter?" The words cracked, barely a whisper. "You were—You were living with him, so you must know. Is he—"
She couldn't finish the sentence.
Felicia felt her own throat tighten, her pulse hammering in her ears.
She could lie.
She wanted to lie.
Because looking at Gwen now—standing there like a shattered version of herself, holding onto hope like it was the only thing keeping her upright—Felicia wasn't sure she had it in her to break her.
But the truth was already there, hanging between them like a weight she couldn't escape.
Felicia clenched her jaw, forcing herself to hold Gwen's gaze.
How could she say it?
When she could barely accept it herself?
Peter Parker is dead.