[Ding!][The reward you have obtained is — Cyclops. Would you like to load it now?]
Klein stared at the line of glowing text on the faint blue screen, his breath catching just slightly.
Cyclops?!
His brain went immediately to Superman — heat vision hot enough to melt steel, capable of cutting through anything like it was made of paper. Or Homelander, with those cold, terrifying red beams that said I could end you and I'd feel nothing about it.
Either way, it sounded like the kind of ability that could yank him out of his dead-end, broke-college-student existence and fast-track him into something actually worth living.
He leaned in instinctively, focusing on the description text beneath the name.
The system seemed to notice. A block of smaller text expanded under the "Cyclops" annotation like it was unfolding just for him —
[Ability Source: X-Men Universe — Scott Summers.][Traits: Eyes are directly linked to an interdimensional energy pool, capable of releasing high-intensity red concussive force blasts. Energy output can be actively controlled through willpower alone.][Warning: Energy release is extremely destructive. Exercise caution.]
Ah. So it wasn't Superman's laser eyes. It was Scott Summers — the X-Men's field commander, the guy who couldn't take his glasses off without accidentally blasting a hole in the wall.
Klein's enthusiasm dipped about ten percent.
But then he actually thought about it.
Eyes connected to another dimension. Infinite energy pool. And — crucially — actively controllable.
Unlike the real Scott Summers, who needed specialized ruby quartz lenses just to function in public, Klein apparently had full voluntary control over when the energy released and when it didn't. He could open his eyes without detonating the coffee shop.
That was... actually not bad at all.
Infinite energy. On demand. Directed by willpower.
Okay, the excitement was climbing back up.
"Klein? ...Klein?"
Peter Parker's voice cut through the mental noise like a hand waving in front of his face.
Klein blinked. The blue system screen pulled back from his vision like a tide retreating from shore.
Not yet, he thought deliberately. Don't load it yet.
Peter had already crossed the coffee shop and was standing at the table, watching him with a mix of confusion and quiet concern — the kind of look someone gives a friend who just checked out mid-conversation.
"Sorry." Klein gave him a slightly tired but easy smile and gestured to the chair across from him. "Zoned out for a second. Sit down — what do you want to drink? Coffee? My treat."
"Oh — no, it's fine, just water's good." Peter sat down a little awkwardly, dropping his worn backpack onto his lap and immediately starting to pick at the strap with his fingers. A nervous habit, Klein noted. The kid looked younger in person than the movies ever captured — thinner, too, with that particular brand of cautious hope behind his glasses that hadn't been beaten out of him yet.
"Two waters," Klein told the passing waiter, then turned back to Peter. "So what's going on? You said something about the internship?"
Peter nodded — then immediately shook his head, fingers still working at the backpack strap.
"That's the thing. I didn't find one. But Harry did. Harry Osborn." He paused, like the name itself needed a moment to land. "You know who he is, right?"
"Hard not to," Klein said, raising an eyebrow. "Son of Norman Osborn. One of the most recognizable faces on campus. Why — what did he say?"
Peter and Klein's friendship was, in its own weird way, a case of two people who'd had similar chunks knocked out of them finding each other and deciding that was enough common ground to build something on. Both had lost their parents young. Both had scraped and clawed just to stay enrolled. Both carried that particular kind of quiet toughness that came from being repeatedly ground down and choosing to get back up anyway.
It made trust come easier between them than it did with most people.
"He found out I've been stressing about the internship situation," Peter said. "And he told me — in October, Oscorp is hosting a major biotech exhibition. They need a team of interns for on-site support." He pushed his glasses up. "He wants me to go. And he said... he said I could ask if there was a spot for you too. I wanted to run it by you first."
Klein didn't answer right away.
He picked up the water glass the waiter had just set down and took a slow sip, the cold cutting through the warmth of the shop, giving himself a moment to think.
"No," he said finally. "But thank you, Peter. Genuinely."
Peter's face shifted immediately. "Klein—"
"I mean it." Klein held up a hand, keeping his tone easy. "Listen to what I'm saying before you argue."
Peter closed his mouth. Reluctantly.
"This is Oscorp," Klein said. "I get it. An internship like this — even just handling logistics at an exhibition — that's the kind of thing that actually changes what a resume looks like. And for people like us, that matters. You're not wrong about any of that."
He set the glass down.
"But here's the thing. You and Harry are friends. Real ones, from what it sounds like. He's offering you a spot because of that friendship, and that makes complete sense. But if you go back to him and say hey, can my buddy come too — what does that look like?"
Peter opened his mouth. Klein kept going.
"To Harry, to his father, to anyone paying attention — it starts to look like you're leveraging the friendship. Like you showed up to the relationship with an angle." He shook his head. "I don't want to be the reason your dynamic with Harry gets weird. And I really don't want a favor that costs you more than it gives me."
Peter was quiet for a moment, brow furrowed, turning it over.
He hadn't thought about it that way. He'd just seen a good opportunity and wanted to share it — the instinct of someone who didn't have much but gave what he could.
"Harry's not like that," Peter said finally. "He wouldn't think that way about me."
"Maybe not consciously," Klein said. "But these things have a way of adding up. Small impressions compound." He reached over and knocked his knuckle lightly against Peter's shoulder. "You go. Land the internship, do good work, make an impression. You're smart — you'll kill it. And once you've built something real over there, then yeah, maybe you throw me a line. That's how it should work."
Peter looked uncertain — torn between the logic of it and the stubbornness of wanting to do something good for his friend right now.
"I just feel like you're always the one missing out," he muttered.
"I'm not missing out." Klein leaned back, lifting the water glass again with a half-smile. "I'm playing the long game. There's a difference."
[End of Chapter 2]
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