The flickering lights of the underground punk club cast long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The music was deafening, a distorted wall of loud sound that rattled through Anyan’s bones, vibrating deep in his chest. He stood at the edge of the room, his now warm drink forgotten in his hand, green eyes drawn to the stage where Hobie Brown was tearing through a guitar riff with wild, reckless energy.
Hobie always had that magnetic pull, that raw defiance that made him stand out in every room. His body seemed to glow under the harsh lights, and his fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, creating chaos and beauty all at once.
But tonight, there was something else in Hobie’s eyes—a tension, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. Anyan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, even though Hobie, as always, wore his carefree grin like armor.
The music surged to a climax, and with one final, screeching note, Hobie let his guitar hang from its strap, throwing a fist in the air to the roars of the crowd. Anyan watched as he leapt off the stage, landing lightly in the mass of people before making his way toward him.
As Hobie approached, wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand, Anyan couldn’t help but feel a pang in his chest. He’d been friends with Hobie for a while now, but lately, things had shifted. It was hard to ignore the way his stomach flipped every time Hobie shot him that grin, or how he’d catch himself watching Hobie’s every move when he thought he wasn’t looking.
And yet, there was a distance too. Something about Hobie that felt untouchable, like he was hiding part of himself behind that mask of rebellion and jokes.
“Anyan!” Hobie’s voice cut through his thoughts as he approached, his grin wide, his dark eyes shimmering under the dim light. “You alright, mate? You’ve been standin’ there lookin’ like the world’s ended.”
Anyan shrugged, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking.”
Hobie raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on his ripped jeans. “Thinkin’s dangerous, y’know. Especially in a place like this.” He gestured around the grungy club, and though his tone was light, there was something off. A heaviness that lingered beneath his usual bravado.
“Yeah, well,” Anyan muttered, glancing down at his drink. “You’ve got enough chaos for both of us.”
Hobie chuckled, but there was no joy in it. “Ain’t that the truth.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The crowd around them thinned as people moved toward the bar, and the noise of the next band setting up filled the space. Hobie shifted closer, leaning against the wall beside Anyan. His arm brushed against Anyan’s, and the touch sent a wave of heat through him that had nothing to do with the stifling air in the club.
“You sure you’re good?” Hobie asked, his voice softer now. His usual cocky demeanor was still there, but there was something gentler in his eyes. It was rare—Hobie didn’t let people in easily, didn’t let people see when something was bothering him.
Anyan sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “I don’t know, Hobie. You ever feel like… you’re missing something? Like everyone around you has it figured out, and you’re just stuck?”
Hobie glanced away for a second, his jaw tightening. It was brief, but Anyan saw it. And suddenly, it felt like he’d touched a nerve.
“Yeah,” Hobie said quietly, looking back at him. “More than you know.”
Anyan frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hobie hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the exit. For a split second, he looked like he wanted to bolt, to escape the conversation. But then he sighed, leaning his head back against the wall.
“There’s stuff I can’t talk about,” Hobie said, his voice low. “Things I’m dealin’ with that… that I can’t explain. Not yet.”
Anyan blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “What kind of things...What can be so hard you can't say anything about?”
Hobie’s eyes met his, dark and intense. There was a storm in them, something far more complicated than Anyan had ever seen before. He felt a pang of worry settle deep in his gut.
“Just… things I have to handle,” Hobie said, his voice rough around the edges. “But I don’t want that to get in the way of this. Of… us.”
Anyan’s breath hitched. Us. Hobie had never said that before, never even hinted that there might be an us to talk about.
“You—what do you mean ‘us’?” Anyan asked, his heart pounding.
Hobie laughed softly, but it wasn’t his usual carefree sound. It was strained, like he was holding something back. He turned toward Anyan, closing the distance between them, his gaze soft but intense. “I’m not good at this stuff, mate. I don’t do the whole ‘open up’ thing real well, y’know? But you…” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t want to lie to you.”
Anyan felt his chest tighten, his pulse racing. There was something so raw about Hobie in this moment, something vulnerable and real in a way Anyan hadn’t seen before. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to ask what was going on behind those eyes, but he hesitated.
“Then don’t,” Anyan said, his voice barely audible over the noise around them. “You don’t have to hide from me, Hobie. Whatever it is… just tell me.”
Hobie’s jaw clenched again, and for a moment, he looked like he was wrestling with himself, like there was something on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t quite say. Then, suddenly, the air shifted.
A loud crash echoed from outside the club, followed by distant shouts. Hobie stiffened immediately, his eyes darting toward the door. His entire body went rigid, and in an instant, Anyan saw the change. The tension, the focus—it was like a switch had been flipped.
“Hob—" Anyan started, but Hobie cut him off, his voice urgent.
“Stay here, Anyan. Don’t move.”
Before Anyan could say a word, Hobie was gone, weaving through the crowd with a speed and agility that didn’t match the way he’d been moments ago. Anyan’s heart raced, confusion flooding his mind. What the hell was going on?
He pushed through the crowd, trying to follow, but by the time he got outside, Hobie had disappeared into the darkened streets. Anyan stood there in the pouring rain, breathing hard, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
And then, far above him, he caught a glimpse of something—a shadow moving across the rooftops. Quick, fluid, almost like…
No. It couldn’t be.
But as the distant sirens blared and the rain continued to pour, Anyan’s mind raced. He’d always heard the stories about Spider-Man—the punk, anarchist version of the hero who fought the corporations, who defied the system. The one who lived in the shadows, hiding behind a mask.
A mask.
The realization hit Anyan like a punch to the gut. The way Hobie disappeared, the way he moved. The way he looked at him tonight, like he was holding something back. Something big.
It couldn’t be. But at the same time… it made too much sense.
Anyan’s hands clenched into fists, his chest tightening with a whirlwind of emotions—anger, betrayal, confusion. He didn’t know what to do with any of it.
If Hobie really was Spider-Punk… if he’d been lying to Anyan this whole time, hiding something so massive… what did that mean for them? For whatever fragile connection they’d been building?
Anyan stared up at the rooftops, the rain blurring his vision. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the truth felt like it was slipping through his fingers, just out of reach.
Hobie had said he didn’t want to lie. But he already had.
And now, Anyan didn’t know what to believe anymore.
