This Place Will Become Your Tomb

Jaws

The hum of technology echoed softly around the Fenton lab, the rhythmic beeping of machines and the low whirr of ghost-detecting devices filling the air with an almost mechanical pulse. It was a comforting sound to Tucker Foley, one that reminded him of all the afternoons he and Danny had spent down here, tinkering with ghost equipment, figuring out how to make the next big gadget that would help them on their hunts.

But today, the sound felt hollow, a far cry from the usual buzz of excitement that the lab once held. The air was thick, heavy with the weight of what was happening upstairs. Danny was up there—barely holding on—and all Tucker could think about was how utterly useless he felt.

He sat at the long metal table in the middle of the lab, staring blankly at the scattered parts and half-finished projects that littered the surface. His fingers drummed restlessly against the cold metal, his mind racing with thoughts that wouldn't settle. He had been down here for over an hour, trying to distract himself, trying to do something—anything—that would make him feel like he was contributing, like he was helping.

But it was no use. No matter how many wires he connected, no matter how many ghost gadgets he fiddled with, the knot in his stomach wouldn't go away. The feeling that he was out of his depth, that he was in over his head, gnawed at him like a relentless beast, sinking its teeth deeper and deeper with every passing minute.

He wasn't Sam. He wasn't Danny. He didn't have the strength or the powers or the determination they had. He was just... Tucker. The tech guy. The one who fixed their gadgets and tried to come up with plans, but who always seemed to be one step behind. One step away from being left behind entirely.

The thought made his stomach churn, a sick, twisting feeling that only grew worse the longer he sat there.

Tucker leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, frustrated sigh as he ran a hand over his face. He felt tired. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally—tired in a way that went beyond the usual exhaustion of their ghost-hunting adventures. It was the kind of tired that came from feeling inadequate, from knowing that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to measure up.

He glanced at the corner of the lab, where the Fenton Portal hummed softly, its swirling green energy casting an eerie glow across the room. The portal was always there, always a reminder of the world that had pulled them all in—the world that had changed Danny's life forever. It had opened a door to another dimension, one that they could never fully close, no matter how hard they tried.

But while Danny and Sam seemed to be able to navigate that world with ease—Danny with his ghost powers, and Sam with her unshakable determination—Tucker always felt like he was standing on the outside, looking in. Watching as they handled things he couldn't even begin to understand.

He hated it.

A loud clatter snapped Tucker out of his thoughts, and he jolted upright, his heart racing as his eyes darted around the lab. The sound had come from behind him, near the shelves where the Fentons kept their ghost-hunting gear. He squinted through the dim light, trying to make out what had fallen.

At first, he thought it was nothing—just one of the Fenton gadgets shifting and falling off the shelf. But then he saw it: a shadow, moving in the corner of the lab. It was faint, barely visible against the backdrop of the swirling green light from the portal, but it was there. And it was moving.

Tucker's breath caught in his throat, his muscles tensing as he stood up from the table. His heart pounded in his chest, a familiar rush of adrenaline flooding his veins as his mind raced through the possibilities. Was it a ghost? A stray spirit that had slipped through the portal when no one was looking?