After the events of No Way Home, Peter Parker had the chance to restart his life and start fresh. But without his family, friends, mentors or fellow Avengers, his life began to spiral into darkness.
His new neighbour however, seems to make that dark...
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I don't know where I stand with Peter at the moment. I know I owe him some kind of grand apology but I'm just so scared to face him knowing that I freaked out the night of the Gala. I don't even know why I'm so scared, I have powers, he's has powers too. He's fucking Spider-Man for gods sake! So he of all people would understand why I kept that a secret.
I think I'm just embarrassed more than scared. I yelled at him and then ran away from my problems rather than face them like a normal person. I know that there will be so many questions he'll have and answering them all will be a lot for me, in fact they'll be the first time answering them. I've never revealed my power to anyone outside of my family, my school and my psychiatrist from the fear of their reaction. And the only person I liked out of that list was Dr. Shao.
I know Peter won't judge me, I know that.
Coming back to work has been relatively easy since Shao increased my medication dosage. Other than the fact I'm a little drowsy when I wake up, it's been pretty standard. Work is the same too - people come in, they watch naked women dance and I make drinks behind the bar. If anything, it's been quite boring without my regular customers popping in to keep me entertained. Especially that sassy little European asking me ridiculous questions about my sex life.
"Hey sugar, can you make me a drink as sweet as you?" A drunken man says as he approaches the bar, leaning against it to keep himself stable.
It's a busy night and the group of heavily inebriated men celebrating a friends bachelor party doesn't help with the onslaught of drinks being ordered. I chuckle and try desperately to not roll my eyes at him, since my manager has pulled me up before for being snarky to customers. I suggest a straight vodka shot, the least likely drink to fall under the 'sweet' category.
He laughs and orders an Old Fashioned, asking me menial questions as he waits for me to mix it. He asks if I'm single, if I want a 'real man' and asks whether or not I'd be interested in going home with him to be shown 'a good time'.
I answer no to all of his questions.
"Those thugs haven't been out beheading people in a while hey? Maybe the cops got 'em... Or maybe they got their asses handed to them by Spider-Man now that he's back," the man across from the bar said, twirling the toothpick of his empty glass between his fingers as he smirked at me.
"Is that your version of flirting? Because women don't usually like being told about murderous gangs in order to go home with someone," I laughed, taking his glass and giving him the bill for the next drink.
Eventually he gets the hint and I'm left to return to my job making drinks for the rest of the club. Besides him, it was a pretty standard night in relation to customers. Nobody threw up, nobody had a fight, nobody asked me to fuck them. By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted.
The last stragglers clear out of the club either on their own accord or by the strength and sheer brut of our bouncers throwing them out. The last dancers on stage scrape up the fake dollar bills that guests buy to throw up or tuck into the straps of their thongs. They then exchange these for actual money, but it's all to stop guests from stealing cash off the stage.
As I hear the cleaners enter for the night, I know that my shift is well and truly over - they always come in bright and early at 5am. The back room has mostly cleared out and gone home except for myself and two of the clubs dancers, chatting amongst themselves about a group of young men who paid them a considerably large tip. I presume it's the drunken trust fund finance babies who had their bachelor party here.
They had paid me a hefty tip tonight as well so I can only imagine how much the girls got for actually being half naked and dancing in their private booth. I heard one of the cleaners ask someone to leave politely, a quick 'sir I am sorry we are closed'. With a large crash and high pitched squeal, I turn my head abruptly towards the door where one of the cleaners must've dropped a tray of glasses, now echoing through the club.
The smashing of glasses quickly turned to a ruckus of screams and clattering furniture skidding across the floor, both dancers in the back room now running out of the back room with their bags in hand. I ran after them, stopping dead in my tracks when I saw a one of the dancers suspended in the air kicking and screaming and being held by a large black figure.
It wasn't human, that's for sure. And it stood at least seven or eight feet tall. On the ground below it was the second dancer, laying on the ground limp like a discarded toy doll with her leg squared in a direction most unnatural.
And she was missing her head.
I was petrified and I felt like I had zero thoughts running through my head at the same time I had a million. The figure hadn't seen me yet, so I slowly backed into the room and looked desperately for a place to hide. I quickly crawled into one of the wardrobes as quietly as I could. It was pretty deep so that the girls could hang their jackets and costumes in, and I curled up in the far back corner behind strands of various clothes and material.
My first thought was to call the police but I knew that they wouldn't respond as fast as Peter could. In theory he would swing here quicker than any squad of cop cars could, and he would believe me when I say there's a murderous alien monster in our club. Although it was so early in the morning I feared he'd be asleep. When he didn't pick up the first ring, I called again and was met with his voicemail, letting out a shaky sigh of fear and defeat.
"P-Peter you need to come to the club right now, there's an alien here a-and it... It's eating people. Everyone's dead Pete, I need you here," I whispered, my voice barely audible as I gripped the phone closely to my mouth.
Before I can hang up, the doors of the wardrobe are ripped off it's hinges by the tall dark figure, a hand revealing loyal on like claws gripping the wood like jelly. This is it, this is how I die.
