(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)
A few hours later...
Late afternoon had crept into the kind of light that made everything feel softer on purpose. The sun was dipping low, and the moon was already peeking like it couldn't wait its turn.
The pool party had thinned out.
Half the champions were gone—out of the water, dried off, already chasing whatever "normal" looked like for them now. The kiosks were closed too, because Pantheon had been cooking for hours like a one-man bakery war machine and even he had limits. Qiyana had told the staff they could clock out and eat whatever they wanted in the mess hall, and the castle employees didn't hesitate to take that blessing and run with it.
The ones still outside were just... lingering. Floating. Talking. Existing without urgency for once.
Peter Parker wasn't with them anymore.
He was inside the castle now, walking the halls like he didn't remember the last ten minutes. Not because he was lost—because he was tired. And a little tipsy.
Ace could drink forever now and feel nothing. Between his ridiculous upgraded fire and having the Speed Force itself as an ability, alcohol hit him like juice. Capri Sun with extra ego. But Peter?
Peter still got affected. Not wrecked—just buzzed. His metabolism was a cheat code, so it would burn off in minutes if he needed it to. But right now he didn't want to sober up instantly. He wanted his body to stop bracing for impact.
He'd been out all day. Shopping. Arcades. Bowling. Pool. Talking. Laughing. Actual laughing.
It felt weird how easy it came when the world wasn't actively ending in front of his face.
He chuckled to himself as he walked, because even in war zones he'd catch himself thinking, God, I'm tired, like the universe was supposed to care. But back then, "tired" didn't matter. You kept moving anyway.
Now? This was his last day to be lazy and not apologize for it.
So yeah. He wanted to be lazy.
A nap sounded perfect—except it was getting close to night, and he knew if he slept now he'd mess up his whole rhythm. So the compromise was obvious: stay awake a bit longer. Tinker with something. Busy hands, quiet brain.
When he finally reached his room, he paused in the doorway and just... stared.
Not at the bed. Not at the furniture.
At the space.
For a second, the room layered over another memory—Queens. That cramped, familiar sense of home. The kind that had never asked him to be anything but a kid trying his best.
His throat tightened. He pushed the thought away immediately, like it had done something wrong.
"Good old times," he muttered under his breath, except it didn't sound nostalgic so much as tired.
He'd mourned that world enough. He'd never stop mourning it. But he couldn't live in that grief like it was a room.
So he stepped inside, crossed to a specific corner, and pressed a button.
The air glitched.
Reality in the room shimmered for a heartbeat—like a screen tearing—and then the bedroom folded out of existence and was replaced by a laboratory.
Clean surfaces. Familiar layout. The same kind of workspace he'd had in the Nexus of Knowledge and Imagination. The only place that still felt like "home" in a way that didn't hurt.
His nanotech suit sat open on the table, partially disassembled. Tools laid out. Diagnostics still running.
He leaned over it, planting both forearms on the edge, and stared down at his own armor like it was a living thing.
My suit.
And just like that, the memory chain started.
A spider bite. A school trip. A lab. A dumb accident that should've ended with a bandage and a story to tell at lunch.
He'd never thought it would turn into street thugs, then supervillains, then aliens, then gods, then... this. Traveling through realities. Watching universes get erased like someone hitting "delete" on a file. Becoming the kind of being that didn't even have a story to go back to anymore.
After Infinity War—after Astral Regulator Thanos—there was no "Queens" left to return to. No city. No neighborhood. No smell of rain on concrete.
So the Nexus had become permanent.
A library disguised as a lifeboat.
Peter exhaled, sat down, and reached for a tool—
—and then he froze.
A knock hit the door.
Not Ace. Not Adriel. Not Artoria. The rhythm was wrong. The feeling was wrong. His spider-sense didn't flare with familiar presence.
He blinked slowly, like the buzz in his system was making the world lag, then stood and walked to the door.
Another knock. Patient this time. Like whoever it was already knew he would answer.
Peter opened it.
And his stomach sank.
Lux stood in the doorway.
He'd been hoping—really hoping—he wouldn't have to deal with this tonight. Not today. Not on the last day that was supposed to be clean and quiet.
She looked... complicated.
Peter couldn't pin it down. Happiness wasn't quite it. Sadness wasn't either. It was something in between, layered like two emotions trying to share the same face.
Lux's gaze slid past him immediately, into the room, taking in the laboratory without even trying to hide it.
Then her lips curved into a smile Peter hated how familiar it felt.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it belonged to someone else.
Someone he'd known in a different world. A different life. A version of Lux who had looked at him like he was gravity.
Her tone shifted too—just slightly. Different cadence. Different confidence.
And she said, almost fondly, "You really haven't changed that habit. Always gotta have a lab somewhere—room, house, basement. Somewhere."
Peter's eyelid twitched.
He didn't show it.
He held his face steady, voice calm. "Yeah."
Lux kept watching the lab like it was a memory she'd walked into on purpose.
Peter swallowed, then said it flat. "So... you're Star Guardian Lux."
The way her expression flickered—offense, disbelief—was immediate.
"Wow," she said, like he'd insulted her. "How could you not recognize me?"
Her smile sharpened into something teasing. Something possessive.
"How could you not know one of the women you made fall in love with you so forcefully—so dominantly?"
Peter's fingers tightened against the doorframe.
In his head, the words came quicker than his mouth ever would.
It's not like I don't remember you. I just didn't know which Lux I was about to get.
He didn't say any of that.
He only said, carefully, "I thought I was talking to this world's Lux."
Lux tilted her head, slow, like she wanted him to bleed the truth out loud.
"Don't stop," she said. "Finish that sentence."
Peter's gaze dropped to the floor. A sting flared in his chest—old guilt, old shame, old exhaustion.
He forced the words out anyway.
"...Not the one where we used to date."
Lux stared at him.
The smile didn't disappear, but it changed. It cooled. Like the phrase used to had cut deeper than he meant it to.
"I see," she said quietly. Then she nodded once, as if filing that away. "When we used to be a thing."
She let the pause hang just long enough to make it hurt.
Then she pushed past it, like she refused to let it be the center.
"Can we talk?" she asked. "Just... talk. Catch up."
Peter didn't answer fast enough, so she kept going—voice softer now, but still threaded with something strange.
"I've been in the dark for so long." Her eyes flickered, distant, like she was watching a memory in real time. "And then I wake up, and I'm in a bed that isn't ours. Not the one we used to share."
Her jaw tightened.
"And Kayle's talking to me, asking how I'm doing, and memories that aren't even mine start flooding in. Nightmares. This version of me—" she swallowed, and the word came out sharper, "—she wanted to die."
Peter's chest tightened.
Lux didn't stop.
"And then there's you. And Ace. You saved her. You saved me—her—whatever this is. And I'm trying to understand why my head feels like it's carrying two lives."
She looked at him again, that same eerie familiarity returning.
"And Ace..." she murmured, almost amused. "I didn't know Ace back then. Not when you were with me. When you were with us. That must've been after that villain you talked about—when he erased your mind, at least part of it."
Peter's jaw flexed.
He gave a small nod. "Yeah."
Lux's eyes narrowed with satisfaction, like she'd proven a theory.
"Hm. Okay." She leaned slightly into the doorway space, as if she already owned it. "So you're really going to keep a girl outside?"
Peter actually considered it.
For half a second he imagined just... closing the door. Locking it. Going back to his suit. Pretending this was tomorrow's problem.
But he'd known this was coming. Ever since the conversation with Ace at Dave & Buster's. He'd been bracing for it even when he pretended not to.
So he stepped aside.
"Come in."
Lux smiled like she'd won something.
She moved past him into the room, and as she crossed the threshold she said, sweet as sugar and twice as dangerous:
"Thank you, my love."
Peter bit the inside of his cheek so hard it almost hurt.
He didn't respond to it. Not yet.
He just watched her enter his space like she belonged there, watched her glance toward his lab like she was remembering how it used to feel to stand beside him.
And all Peter could think—flat, tired, resigned—was:
This is going to be an exhausting night.
He'd wanted to end the day on a good note.
But even when the world finally went quiet, drama always found the Guardians anyway.
Like it had a damn key.
Peter didn't show it.
With the blank, steady face he had on right now, you'd think he was fine. Unbothered. In control.
But for some reason—for some stupid reason—his heart was beating harder here than it ever did in a real fight. Life and death? Easy. Clear. You hit or you get hit.
This?
This was messy. Human. And it crawled under his skin in a way a punch never could.
Lux stepped fully into the room like she'd been invited years ago. Like she belonged. Like she hadn't just walked in carrying someone else's memories like a loaded gun.
She did a slow turn, taking in the laboratory that had been his bedroom seconds ago. The benches. The equipment. The clean, almost clinical organization that always made him feel like he could control something, even when everything else was chaos.
Her eyes gleamed with that familiar, dangerous curiosity.
"Does it—" she started, then corrected herself with a quieter, more careful tone, "does this room... switch? Like, it can become different rooms? A bedroom, a lab... anything?"
Peter didn't see a reason to lie. Not about that.
"Yeah," he said, simple.
Lux waited, so he gave her the mechanics the way he always did—casual, like he wasn't describing something that would've broken most people's sense of reality.
"It's not really switching," he explained. "The space distorts and overlays a pocket dimension layout. Same footprint, different structure. Think... swapping a file directory. The room is the interface. The other space is stored."
He finished like it was normal.
Lux stared at him with this intense softness that made the explanation feel pointless. Like she hadn't understood a word—because she hadn't been listening to the science.
She'd been listening to him.
It was that look. The one that didn't care what you said. The one that only cared that you existed and you were talking and she was in the room with you.
Peter felt it in his throat. Tight. Wrong.
Stop looking at me like that.
He didn't say it out loud. He just stood there, stiff, letting silence do what his mouth couldn't.
Lux's gaze drifted as she moved deeper into the lab.
And then she saw it.
A small photo—Peter and Chrona, caught mid-laugh in the Nexus. Not heroic. Not dramatic. Just... dumb, happy, alive. The kind of moment you didn't think about until it was all you had left.
Lux stopped like the air had turned to glass.
Her expression shifted. Not just hurt. Not just jealousy.
Something sharper. Something uglier.
"She," Lux said softly, like the word tasted bitter. "She gets to have you."
Peter's jaw tightened.
Lux didn't look at him yet. She kept staring at the photo like it was evidence in a trial she'd already decided the verdict for.
"And me?" she continued. "Us? You get to move on. You get to pretend it was—what—some phase? Some detour? Like it didn't matter?"
Peter's pulse thudded once, hard.
He didn't answer, and Lux took that as permission to keep going.
She started listing it. Calm at first. Methodical. Like she'd rehearsed it in her head a hundred times.
How he appeared.
How he changed their lives.
How the Star Guardians never recovered from him—how it didn't matter if he was gone for hours or days, the entire team spiraled when he wasn't there. How even Ahri's team felt it. How the world bent around his absence like he'd trained them to need him.
"Anchor," she said, and her voice almost cracked on it. "Leader. Center of everything."
Peter's stomach twisted.
Because the worst part was—she wasn't wrong about the effect.
He just hated the way she was using it now. Like it was her suffering he owed, like he'd done all of it with clear eyes and clean hands.
"This is bullshit," Peter snapped, and the words came out harsher than he meant. His control slipped for half a second, just enough to show the teeth underneath.
Lux finally looked at him.
Tears were sitting in her eyes. Not falling yet. Just there, heavy, like they'd been waiting for him to raise his voice so they could justify existing.
Peter's anger stuttered.
Because suddenly it wasn't just accusation anymore. It was grief.
And grief didn't care about fairness.
She swallowed, then spoke again—quieter this time, but it hit harder.
"So that's what it is," Lux said. "I'm... what. A page?"
Peter flinched internally. A hot, ugly flash—Adriel. The way he'd talked back then. The cold efficiency. The emotional distance that turned people into objectives.
Peter's chest went tight.
No.
No, I'm not doing that.
Lux stepped closer, still crying, voice shaking but stubborn.
"I lost everything," she said. "My home. My universe. And then I wake up and I'm not even in my body the way I remember it. I'm... sharing. I'm flooded with memories that aren't mine, nightmares that are mine, and—"
She laughed once, humorless.
"And you're just... you. A nerd with a lab. A funny guy. A guy who can smile and joke and... discard people like breathing."
Peter opened his mouth to argue.
He wanted to tell her it wasn't like that. That it hadn't been him. That the symbiote, the torture, the manipulation—Red Goblin and A.M.—that it had warped him into something he still hated remembering.
But Lux was crying in front of him, and every word he tried to form felt like it would turn into an excuse.
And he couldn't take her trying to carve her pain into his ribs like he owed her blood for it.
So he did the only thing that made sense.
He set a boundary.
Hard.
Peter stepped to the side and pointed toward the door. His voice went flat—not cruel, but final.
"Lux," he said, "you need to leave."
Lux froze.
It hit her like a slap. Shock first. Then disbelief. Then a slow, trembling anger that looked a lot like heartbreak.
"So that's how it's gonna be," she whispered.
Peter didn't move.
He wasn't going to let her break him open just because she was bleeding too.
Lux nodded to herself like she was accepting a sentence.
She walked to the doorway, slow. Each step like she expected him to stop her.
Right at the threshold, she paused.
Then—without looking at him—she touched her stomach.
A small gesture. Almost absentminded.
But it landed like a weight.
"I'm just a page in your story," Lux said softly. "Right?"
And then she left.
The door closed behind her with a quiet, ordinary click.
Peter stood there beside the edge of his bed—his lab—his sanctuary—and he didn't move for a long moment.
No witty comeback. No big speech. No heroic clarity.
Just silence.
And the brutal, sobering realization that this—this kind of fight—left bruises you couldn't regenerate from in minutes.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
In another wing of the castle, the after after-party was settling into that mellow, late-night rhythm—when the noise thins out, the laughter stops trying so hard, and everyone finally starts talking like they're real people again.
Artoria sat with Sarah Fortune near the edge of the gathering, the two of them deep in conversation like they'd known each other longer than they actually had. Neeko hovered close by—clingy in the harmless way, bouncing between topics and checking on people like she'd appointed herself everyone's emotional support animal. LeBlanc and Swain stayed in their own orbit, composed as ever, but even they looked... less sharp around the edges. Less like chess pieces. More like survivors.
Ace mostly stayed planted where the food was.
It wasn't even subtle.
Servants drifted by every so often, asking if he needed anything, treating him like he was royalty in human form, and Ace—true to himself—didn't make it weird. He just kept eating like the castle had personally challenged him.
Artoria, though, wore the attention like a familiar cloak. She'd been a king. She knew what reverence looked like. Ace still couldn't get used to it. Back in his world, attention meant wanted posters and whispers. Fear. Respect earned the hard way.
This was different.
This was people looking at him like he was a miracle.
He pretended it didn't get under his skin.
He chewed, swallowed, sipped, and let the chatter wash over him—Leona talking softly with Sarah, Neeko laughing at something only Neeko would find funny, Artoria listening with that quiet steadiness she'd been growing into day by day.
And while his body did the easy part—eat, drink, exist—his mind kept drifting.
He could feel it.
Peter.
Something had happened. Not like a fight. Not like blood and broken bones. It was sharper than that, in its own way. Emotional static. A sour shift that made Ace's instincts kick up even when he didn't want them to.
He told himself he'd check on Peter later.
Not right now. Not in the middle of this fragile peace.
Because if there was one thing Ace still didn't understand—no matter how many worlds he'd been thrown into, no matter how many wars he'd survived—it was love.
Fighting? Easy. Straight lines. Clear threats.
Love was... tangled.
It made people irrational. Made them brave in the stupidest ways. Made them soft where they shouldn't be.
And lately, ever since becoming a Guardian—ever since his mind had expanded in ways his old self never asked for—those thoughts were showing up more often. Uninvited. Uncomfortable.
He didn't know if that was growth or just another problem waiting to bite him later.
He tried to shake it off and focused on the plate in front of him.
Then someone approached.
Leona.
She didn't stride up like she owned the room. She didn't come in with some hidden agenda. She walked up slow, measured, like she didn't want to startle him—like she was asking permission just by being near.
Ace glanced up.
Even now, with her radiance dulled by everything she'd endured, she still looked like herself. Like the lore had reached through the war and refused to let her disappear entirely.
She offered him a small, careful smile.
"Ace," she greeted, keeping it casual on purpose.
He nodded back and jerked his chin toward the empty seat beside him. "Sit if you want. Eat. Talk. Whatever."
Leona looked relieved by the simple invitation and sat down.
For a few seconds, it was just the sound of Ace eating and Leona trying to find the right place to start. The kind of awkward quiet that wasn't hostile—just unfamiliar.
Then Leona finally spoke, voice gentle.
"I've been watching you all," she admitted. "The Guardians. And... I was wondering how you're holding up."
Ace gave a small, honest shrug. "Tired."
It came out flat—not dramatic. Not poetic. Just truth.
Leona's gaze softened. "That's... an understatement."
Ace huffed, half a laugh that didn't fully commit. "Yeah. You could say that."
She hesitated, then her eyes drifted toward the wider gathering, toward the people laughing and talking like they hadn't spent a year being crushed under something they couldn't fight.
"In Targon," Leona said quietly, "we were... lucky. Compared to others."
She didn't finish the thought.
Ace didn't make her.
He just nodded once, slow. Some things didn't need to be said out loud to be understood.
Leona eased into the seat beside him, hands folded like she wasn't sure what to do with them when she wasn't holding a blade.
Ace kept eating for a second, then glanced sideways. "So... what's up?"
Leona hesitated. "I don't know how to say it without sounding... dramatic."
Ace snorted. "You're talking to me. Dramatic's fine. I've been setting myself on fire since I was a teenager."
That got a tiny smile out of her—quick, like it surprised her.
"I've been watching you," she admitted. "All of you. The way you move. The way you act. Like... it's normal."
Ace swallowed, wiped his fingers on a napkin. "It's not."
"I know," Leona said softly. "But you still joke. You still eat like the world isn't ending. You still—" She cut herself off, jaw tightening. "I don't understand how you do that."
Ace shrugged, but it wasn't cocky. It was tired. "If I don't, I start thinking. If I start thinking, I get pissed. If I get pissed... I do something stupid." He tapped his temple with two fingers. "So I keep moving."
Leona studied him for a moment. "You make it look easy."
Ace barked a laugh. "Nah. I just make it look like I'm not losing my mind."
That landed. Leona's gaze drifted, like she was looking at a memory she didn't want.
"In Targon..." she started, then stopped.
Ace didn't push. He just nodded once, giving her the space.
Leona exhaled. "We didn't fight back because we couldn't. Mangog made sure we understood what would happen if we tried." Her voice went quiet. "So we stayed. We watched. And every day... you wake up and you feel like a coward for still being alive."
Ace's expression softened a fraction. "That ain't cowardice. That's surviving."
Leona blinked at him. "It doesn't feel like it."
"Yeah," Ace said, leaning back in his chair. "Survival doesn't feel heroic while you're doing it. It just feels... ugly."
Leona's mouth twitched—almost a laugh, almost a wince. "You speak like you've done it too."
Ace's eyes flicked away for a second. "I have."
Leona caught that. She didn't press—just nodded like she understood more than she was saying.
After a moment, Ace forced the tone lighter, because he could feel the air thickening.
"So," he said, pointing his fork vaguely in her direction, "you pick up any hobbies while you were stuck under Mangog's 'do not move or I'll ruin your life' rule?"
Leona stared at him.
Then, surprisingly, she let out a short laugh. "That might be the most accurate description of it."
Ace grinned. "I try."
Leona shook her head, warmth returning just a little. "No hobbies. Mostly... routines. Training when I could. Cleaning my armor even when it didn't need it. Counting steps around the same terrace like that meant something." She paused, quieter. "Trying not to fall apart."
Ace nodded slowly, more serious again. "Yeah. That part I get."
Leona glanced at him, cautious but sincere. "Do you ever... regret it? Being a Guardian?"
Ace didn't answer right away. His fork hovered midair.
Then he said, honest and simple: "I regret what it costs."
Leona's eyes softened. "But not the choice."
Ace looked at her. "No." A beat. "Not the choice."
Leona held that for a second, like it steadied her. Then she exhaled.
"...Thank you," she said. "For talking to me like I'm not fragile."
Ace scoffed lightly. "You're literally Leona."
She rolled her eyes—almost amused. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," Ace said, and his tone was gentler than his words. "You're good."
The silence stretched again, heavier this time, and Ace didn't like where it was going. He didn't want this to turn into another round of grief-sharing in a room that was finally breathing.
So he pivoted.
"Pantheon really went and did it, huh?" Ace asked, tilting his head toward the direction of the baker kiosk. "Dude picked a whole new hobby."
Leona blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh—quiet, but real.
"A hobby," she repeated, like the word felt strange in her mouth after the year they'd had.
Ace nodded, chewing as he spoke. "Dude makes good stuff, let me tell you. I'm glad he can distract himself with something."
Leona's expression shifted—less gloom, more thought.
"I didn't have much to do in Targon," she admitted. "Not really. Mostly... waiting. Watching... And what I mentioned before."
Ace listened without interrupting, tossing in little comments when it fit—small jokes, light teasing, anything to keep her from sinking back into that hollow place.
And Leona noticed.
She didn't say it directly, but her eyes softened again like she was grateful he was trying.
They talked like that for a while—nothing big, nothing world-ending—just two people learning how to be normal again in a world that had forgotten what normal looked like.
Then Artoria wandered over, drawn by the smell of food and the sight of Ace doing what Ace did best: eating like he was personally offended by hunger.
She crossed her arms and stared down at the plates stacked like a small mountain range.
"You're still eating?" Artoria asked, deadpan. "At this point, the castle is going to run out of food. Do you want everyone to starve?"
Ace glanced up, unimpressed. "I'm not starving anyone."
Artoria raised a brow. "You're trying."
Ace swallowed, then gestured vaguely at his own body like that explained everything. "Peter gave me Speed Force. I burn through this now. It's not my fault."
Artoria's eyes narrowed. "You're unbearable."
Ace grumbled, but there was no real heat behind it. "Tell that to my stomach."
Leona laughed again—this time louder—and it surprised her. Like she didn't expect herself to make that sound.
She glanced at Artoria, then stood, expression turning sincere.
"I wanted to thank you," Leona said, voice steady despite the weight behind it. "For... everything. For Targon."
Artoria's posture shifted instantly—less teasing, more attentive.
Leona continued, eyes dropping briefly like she was afraid of saying too much.
"And Adriel. Please... tell him I'm grateful. For freeing us. For giving us a place to breathe again."
Artoria nodded, solemn. "I will."
Leona's shoulders loosened, like that alone took something off her chest.
She turned to leave, but Ace spoke up before she could step away.
"You're not bothering us," he said, blunt but sincere. "You can hang around if you want."
Leona paused, warmed by the offer. Then she shook her head gently.
"Thank you," she said. "But... I should check on the others. And I don't want to take up your time."
Ace shrugged like it didn't matter. "Do what you want."
Leona smiled, softer now. "Good night."
"Night," Ace answered.
"Good night," Artoria added.
Leona left, and when she was gone, an awkward quiet settled between Ace and Artoria.
Not bad awkward.
Just... that moment where both people suddenly realize they're alone.
Ace scratched the back of his neck. "So."
Artoria blinked at him, genuinely unsure. "So... what do you want to do?"
Ace's eyes flicked toward the castle halls instinctively.
"Check on Peter," he admitted. "I felt something. With Lux."
Artoria's expression tightened with understanding. She looked faintly guilty, like she should've noticed more earlier, like she should've caught the shift before it turned into a problem.
Ace didn't press it. He just exhaled.
Then, as if on cue, he caught a glimpse of Sarah Fortune across the space—watching way too intently with the kind of focus people usually reserved for spying or plotting.
The second Ace made eye contact with her, she looked away like she hadn't been staring.
Ace sighed through his nose.
Yeah. She's absolutely planning something.
He thought about Peter again.
Then he thought about Sarah's barely-contained excitement.
Then he thought—
Peter could wait a little longer.
Peter was tough. Peter could survive a few more minutes of drama without Ace hovering over him like a babysitter.
Ace looked back at Artoria.
"...Wanna walk?" he asked, casual.
Artoria perked up like she'd been waiting for an excuse. "Sure."
From the corner of his eye, Ace saw Sarah Fortune almost physically vibrate with joy before she forced herself to look normal again.
Ace didn't comment.
He stood, wiped his mouth with a tissue, and glanced at the table he'd absolutely destroyed—plates everywhere like evidence of a crime scene.
"Yeah," he muttered, stepping away. "That's the staff's problem."
And then he waited for Artoria to follow, and together they started their slow stroll—one last quiet pocket of peace before tomorrow dragged them back into war.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Adriel had been in his room for a while now, sitting on the edge of his bed like it was the only place in the castle that didn't demand something from him. One leg bounced—fast, constant—his heel tapping the floor in a rhythm that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with panic.
He'd tried all day to get out of his own head.
He'd forced himself to be social. Forced himself to smile. Forced himself to play dominoes like he wasn't counting down to tomorrow like it was a funeral.
It didn't work.
The closer tomorrow got, the tighter his chest felt. The more his brain started stacking worst-case scenarios like it was building a tower just to watch it fall.
He wasn't even sure he could sleep at all.
Which meant he'd probably have to use the System.
He hated that.
It wasn't real sleep. It was like getting knocked out—lights out, body off, mind dragged under for eight hours whether he wanted it or not. He'd done it once, a long time ago, and the memory still made his skin crawl. Like his own agency got yanked out from under him.
But desperate times—
A knock cut through his thoughts.
Adriel exhaled through his nose, slow, already knowing who it was. "Yeah?" he called, voice rougher than he meant.
"It's me," Qiyana answered.
He didn't move right away. Not because he was surprised—because he wasn't. She always found her way into his space like she had the map memorized.
He finally said, "Come in."
The door opened, and Qiyana stepped inside like she owned the room too. Not in a rude way. In the way of someone who'd decided a long time ago that she belonged near him, and the world would just have to cope.
She moved around the room with that same casual confidence she carried everywhere. Her gaze flicked across the bed, the dresser, the scattered signs of Adriel's half-lived life in this castle—then back to him, like she was checking if he was still intact.
"You disappeared," she said, almost teasing. "The day was fun and you just… vanished."
Adriel's leg kept bouncing. He didn't stop it. "Wasn't really in the mood."
Qiyana hummed, unbothered, then drifted closer. "The pool party was a good idea. I'll give Peter and Ace that."
She said it like it pained her to admit.
Adriel's eyes shifted to her, faintly amused despite himself. "Yeah. You definitely didn't go all out or anything."
Qiyana's smile tilted. "I don't know what you mean."
He stared at her like she was crazy. "There was enough food out there to feed the castle for two days."
She laughed softly, like that was a compliment. "Pantheon wouldn't stop cooking. And everybody loved it."
Adriel nodded once. "He's happy. That's what matters."
And he meant it.
It was a good sign—watching people rebuild themselves in small ways. Watching them do normal things again. Watching them laugh without it sounding broken.
He didn't say it out loud, but he was tired of the constant heaviness too. Not because their grief annoyed him—because it didn't. He understood it more than anyone.
He was just tired of living inside it.
Qiyana's expression softened like she'd heard the thought anyway. "I know what you're trying to say," she murmured. "You're not disrespecting them. You're just… trying to keep everyone afloat."
Adriel's brows lifted slightly. "You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad?" Qiyana stepped closer, her voice quieter now. "I'm doing the same thing. Look around."
She gestured vaguely toward the window—toward the castle, toward Ixtal itself.
"I took pieces of your era and welded them into ours. Magic, technology, infrastructure—anything that could make people feel like life wasn't just survival anymore." Her gaze cut back to him. "And it's working. They're getting better."
Adriel's mouth opened, then closed again.
Because he wanted to argue.
Not about the results—about her.
He'd been seeing her nonstop lately and every time she showed up she had another invention, another upgrade, another "small idea" that turned into a city-scale project in three days.
"You ever sleep?" he asked, suspicion in his tone.
Qiyana's eyes narrowed like she'd caught something. "Are you worrying about me?"
Adriel scoffed, trying to shrug it off, but she didn't let him.
"Oh, you are." She leaned in a fraction. "That's cute."
"Don't start," he muttered.
Qiyana's grin widened. "To late~."
Their back-and-forth lasted maybe a minute—small teasing, soft jabs—until she stopped right in front of him.
Two feet away.
Then one.
Adriel was sitting, so he had to look up to meet her eyes.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
Not because of magic. Because of what he already knew—and what she already knew he was trying not to say.
Tomorrow.
The Guardians had a face, lately. A look they wore when they thought nobody was paying attention.
Not fear—because fear would've been easier. Fear was honest.
This was something worse. A quiet dread mixed with resolve, like soldiers pretending they weren't already saying goodbye in their heads.
Qiyana didn't need Adriel to explain it. She'd seen it on Ace. On Peter. On Artoria.
But it was clearest on him.
She lifted a hand and touched his cheek, slow—fingertips gentle against skin that had been in too many wars.
Adriel leaned into the touch before he could stop himself.
That alone almost made him angry, because it proved how tired he was.
How much he needed something real.
Qiyana's voice softened. "You did everything you could today."
Adriel swallowed. "It doesn't feel like enough."
"It is," she said, firm. Then quieter: "And even if it wasn't… you're still here. You're still trying."
His throat tightened.
She didn't stop. "You're a hero. You can call yourself whatever you want—king, guardian, asshole, whatever. But to me, you're the one who saved my people."
Adriel's eyes flickered, discomfort and emotion mixing together. "Qiyana—"
"No," she cut in gently, not letting him deflect. "Let me say it."
She stepped closer, her hand still on his cheek.
"Because of you, I'm alive. Because of you, Ixtal is alive. And I will never be able to repay that." Her gaze didn't waver. "But I can believe in you. I can stand with you. And I can remind you—when your head starts eating itself—that you are not doing this alone."
Adriel's heart was hammering now, loud enough that it felt embarrassing.
Then she said it.
The thing she always implied but rarely said this clean.
"I love you."
The words hit him like a shockwave.
Not because he didn't know—because he did. He'd known for a long time.
But hearing it out loud made it real in a way that terrified him.
He froze, and Qiyana saw it immediately.
Not disgust. Not rejection.
Fear.
The kind of fear Adriel carried like a second skeleton.
Fear of being loved. Fear of losing it. Fear of Darks finding the soft parts and ripping them open just to watch him bleed.
And she didn't get angry at him for it.
She never did.
"I know you're scared," she said quietly. "And I'm not going to punish you for that."
Adriel's eyes drifted away for half a second—memories flashing like broken frames.
Chisato.
Rebecca.
Sofya.
People he'd had to leave "for their own good." People he'd tried to protect by vanishing. People whose memories got erased, whose names got swallowed, whose stories he couldn't hold onto no matter how hard he clawed.
The lesson had carved itself into him: stay too long, and you paint a target on everyone you care about.
And Darks didn't just fight you.
They used you.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into the room.
Qiyana watched him like she could see every ghost moving behind his eyes.
"You have all this power," she murmured, "and you still choose restraint. You still choose accountability. You still choose to stay grounded." Her thumb brushed his cheek. "That's why I'm here. That's why I'm not leaving."
Adriel's jaw clenched.
He was hesitating.
And Qiyana—being Qiyana—decided she was done waiting for him to stop thinking himself into a cage.
She leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't playful. It wasn't a tease.
It was the kind of kiss that carried time inside it. Longing. Patience. A month's worth of wanting to pull him back into the world.
Adriel froze for a heartbeat.
Then his hands found her waist, and he kissed her back—still careful, still hesitant, but real.
Qiyana took that as permission.
She moved closer, closer, until she was right there with him—until his heart was loud and his thoughts were useless.
For one moment, he stopped calculating consequences.
For one moment, he just existed.
Then she pulled back just enough to breathe, their foreheads nearly touching.
And with that wicked little spark she always carried, she murmured, half-joking, half-commanding—
"You should do a little less thinking… and a little more 'touch my body.'"
Adriel blinked.
That rhythm hit his brain like a familiar beat.
He stared at her for one second, then a smirk broke through despite everything.
"…Did you just quote Ariana Grande at me?"
Qiyana's grin turned triumphant. "Maybe."
Adriel let out a laugh—quiet at first, then real, the sound surprising even him. He leaned forward instinctively, face dropping against her shoulder as the laugh escaped like pressure finally releasing.
Qiyana's arms wrapped around him, satisfied, warm.
"There," she whispered, smiling. "That's better."
Adriel exhaled, still laughing under his breath, and for the first time all day the tightness in his chest eased.
Tomorrow was still coming.
The war was still waiting.
Anansi was still out there, building a nightmare with a spider's patience.
But right now—right now he let himself breathe.
And Qiyana stayed close, like she'd decided she'd be his peace for as long as the world allowed it.
The room's door clicked shut behind them.
And for once, Adriel didn't feel like running.
The Next Day...
Morning didn't feel like morning.
It felt like the last inhale before a dive—lungs full, heart already bracing for the cold.
The Guardians had rested. They'd laughed. They'd eaten like they'd forgotten what hunger was. They'd let the world pretend it wasn't bleeding for one more night.
And now the bill was due.
Peter Parker got the worst of it.
He didn't sleep. Not really. Not after last night.
Not after opening his door to Lux and realizing—too late—that he wasn't talking to this Lux anymore. Not after the arguments, the accusations, the way she'd taken his guilt and tried to weaponize it like it was proof he deserved to suffer.
He'd shut the door in her face. He'd done what he had to do.
But sleep didn't come after that. Just silence. Just thoughts circling the drain.
So when morning hit, Peter's decision was simple: avoid Lux. Don't even risk it. Don't risk another "conversation" that turned into a knife.
He'd keep his head down. He'd do what was promised.
That was it.
Ace and Artoria didn't sleep much either—but for a different reason.
They'd spent most of the night outside. Eating whatever caught their attention. Wandering the city like two idiots trying to squeeze a lifetime into a few hours. They'd laughed, argued, bought things they didn't need, and tried not to think about what tomorrow meant.
Then they noticed the time.
And ran.
Both of them sprinting back to their rooms like they'd just remembered they were still soldiers.
Three hours of sleep, maybe.
Enough to function.
Not enough to feel good about it.
Adriel, somehow… actually slept.
For once, the night didn't turn into a war in his head. For once, the anxiety didn't chew through him until sunrise.
Because Qiyana had kept him grounded.
Because she'd pulled him out of his thoughts and into something real—warm and present and loud enough to drown out the spiral.
When he woke, the first thing he noticed was the quiet.
Then the morning light. Soft. Golden.
Then the weight beside him.
He turned his head.
Qiyana was there—sleeping peacefully, hair spread across the pillow like a silver fan. Missing clothes. Missing subtlety, if last night's memories had anything to say about it.
Adriel stared for a second, half-amused and half-stunned.
"…Damn," he thought, voice dry even inside his own head. "She really went all the way."
He should've felt panicked.
Instead… he felt calm.
And that alone told him how badly he'd needed it.
He sat up slowly, careful not to wake her too fast. The morning sun hit his skin and for a second he just sat there—bare, quiet, still—like a person instead of a weapon.
Then he remembered what day it was.
His expression flattened.
He gave a mental command.
The Toxin symbiote answered instantly—slick and obedient—sliding up his body in a seamless black wrap. It covered everything except his face, as if it understood the assignment without needing the lecture.
He was ready.
He was halfway to the door when Qiyana shifted.
A sleepy sound. A slow stretch.
Then her eyes opened—heavy-lidded, satisfied, and immediately sharp with that same familiar attitude.
"So you're just leaving?" she said, voice husky with sleep and triumph. "No good luck kiss?"
Adriel paused mid-step, like he'd been inconvenienced by a royal decree.
He snorted. "You're unbelievable."
"I'm correct," Qiyana countered, sitting up a little. "There's a difference."
He gave her a look like he wanted to argue.
Then he walked back anyway.
He leaned down and kissed her—soft, affectionate, unhurried. Not desperate. Not hesitant. Just… accepted.
When he pulled away, she looked pleased with herself, like she'd won something important.
She murmured, quieter now, "Go save my world."
Adriel's mouth tilted into a smirk.
"Yeah," he said. "You don't gotta tell me twice."
He turned to leave again.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
He blinked out of his room.
A flicker of distortion, a clean cut in space, and Adriel appeared at the castle's front gate like he belonged there—like reality itself had learned to make room for him.
Peter was already waiting.
He looked like hell.
Not physically. He wasn't injured. But his eyes were tired in a way that didn't come from lack of sleep alone. His posture had that subtle tension of someone who'd been braced for impact since midnight.
Adriel clocked it immediately.
"You good?" Adriel asked, blunt but not unkind.
Peter exhaled through his nose. "Had drama with Lux."
Adriel's expression tightened—not surprised, just… irritated on Peter's behalf. He'd noticed the shift in Lux before anyone else had said it out loud. Not just the clinginess. The wrongness. The narrative friction around her like reality couldn't decide which version of her to keep.
Adriel's voice lowered slightly. "The overlap?" he asked. "Dimensions bleeding?"
Peter nodded once. "Yeah. And she tried to dump her whole life on my lap like it was my fault."
Adriel didn't have some perfect speech ready. He didn't have a therapist voice. He didn't have a gentle way to make it clean.
So he went honest.
"That's bullshit," Adriel said simply. "And you know it."
Peter's jaw flexed. "Yeah. I know."
Adriel's gaze sharpened. "Then don't let it get in your head."
Peter's eyes flickered. "I'm trying."
Adriel nodded. "Good. Because we don't have time for ghosts today."
Peter didn't argue.
He just looked forward again—toward the horizon, toward Piltover's direction, toward the thing waiting for them like a closed fist.
Footsteps rushed down the path.
Ace and Artoria finally arrived.
Ace looked slightly less tired than Peter, but only because Ace ran on stubbornness like it was fuel. Artoria looked composed—hair neat, posture steady—but her eyes had that faint edge that said she'd slept too little and thought too much.
Adriel stared at them both like they'd committed a personal offense.
"What the fuck," Adriel said flatly. "Was I the only one who actually slept?"
Ace rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed for half a second before his pride kicked in. "We had fun."
Adriel's eyes narrowed. "Yeah?"
Artoria's face colored instantly. "Not—like that."
Adriel snorted.
Ace pointed at him like Adriel was the problem. "Oh, shut up."
Peter, despite himself, smirked.
Adriel waved a hand like the comedy hour was over. "Alright. Enough. Let's go."
Ace rolled his shoulders. "Teleport us already."
Adriel didn't drag it out.
He snapped his fingers.
Reality folded.
They reappeared in front of the dome.
Piltover was gone behind it—hidden. Sealed. Cut out of the world like someone had taken a blade to the map and carved a hole.
The barrier wasn't just black.
It was wrong.
A dark force field stretched upward and outward, swallowing the skyline. Space around it warped subtly, as if time didn't like being too close. The air near it felt thick, like the universe had developed a gag reflex.
Even the wind seemed hesitant.
The Guardians stood still for a beat—quiet, each of them doing their own kind of mental prep.
Adriel stepped forward first.
Of course he did.
He approached the dome and the System pinged—sharp, intrusive—like a warning siren inside his skull.
A prompt flashed.
And the second he read it, irritation sparked behind his eyes.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
Peter leaned slightly. "What?"
Adriel didn't look back yet. "It's only letting me through."
Ace's posture stiffened. "What."
Artoria's voice went tight. "Adriel—"
Adriel held up a hand. "I know."
The System's rule was clear: Adriel could enter. The other Guardians had to remain outside until the barrier was compromised from within.
A lock. A gate. A narrative filter.
Because of course Anansi would make it complicated.
Because of course the last Dark would turn the entry into a trap.
Ace stepped forward like he was about to argue with the dome itself. "That's stupid as hell."
"It is," Adriel agreed. Then he exhaled, slow. "But it's fine."
Artoria's eyes narrowed. "You're going alone?"
"For now," Adriel said.
Peter's expression sharpened—concern, calculation, a hundred ways this could go wrong flashing behind his eyes.
Adriel met their stares and didn't flinch.
"I'm not fighting him solo," Adriel said firmly. "I'm not that dumb."
Ace muttered, "Debatable."
Adriel shot him a look. Ace shut up.
"I'm going in to recon," Adriel continued. "To see what the hell's happening inside. To find the seam. A weak point. Something I can crack so you three can enter."
He paused, then added, quieter but steady, "We prepared for this."
Artoria swallowed. "And if time moves different in there?"
Adriel's mouth tightened. "Then it moves different."
Ace's jaw clenched.
Peter's voice went low. "Just… don't get cute."
Adriel's smirk flickered—small, tired. "Wasn't planning to."
He stepped back toward them.
And before he crossed the threshold, he did something simple.
He fist-bumped Peter.
Then Ace.
Then Artoria.
Not dramatic. Not ceremonial.
Just… real.
"Good luck," Peter said.
Ace's voice was rougher than usual. "Don't die."
Artoria's eyes softened. "Come back."
Adriel nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "I will."
Then he turned.
Stretched his shoulders, rolling his neck like he was loosening up before a spar.
He walked up to the dome.
And placed his hand against it.
The instant his palm made contact—
Existence folded.
To be continued...