A young New Yorker finds himself in over his head after finding a symbiote that changes him in unexpected ways.

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Chapter 13

“Earth to Elisa, hello?”

Harper’s voice snaps me back so hard I almost trip on the sidewalk.

“Oh—uh, sorry,” I say, blinking fast. “Got lost in thought.”

“We were talking about what to do today,” Harper says, bumping my arm with hers. “Luca wanted boba. I was voting for aimless window shopping and judging other people’s outfits.”

I smile, soft but tired. “I think I should head home today.”

Luca raises a brow. “Why?”

Before I can even form a sentence, Harper smoothly cuts in. “Girl stuff.”

Luca’s face does this immediate, ah-shaped panic, and he throws his hands up like he’s been hit with a force field. “Say no more. I am suddenly very busy not asking follow-up questions.”

I snort.

“I’ll hang out tomorrow,” I promise. “Assuming nothing happens.”

Harper nods, mock-serious. “We’ll reschedule the mall tour of judgment.”

I wave them off as they move in the opposite direction, still bickering.

And then I turn the corner.

Toward home.

Toward Mom.

Toward a truth I really don’t want to say—

But have to.

The moment I step into my building, it hits me—the heavier air, the smell of old paint and someone’s forgotten takeout, the soft hum of the flickering hallway light. It’s familiar.

I head up the stairs slowly, each creak under my sneaker like it’s announcing me to the universe.

My backpack feels heavier.

I pause halfway up, hand grazing the railing.

The door at the top feels miles away.

“We should practice the words,” the symbiote suggests gently.

“No,” I think back, teeth clenched. “If I rehearse it, I’ll lose my nerve.”

My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.

I take the last few stairs, one step at a time. The door to our apartment is just ahead. Light peeks under the bottom—Mom’s home. Already.

I raise my hand to the knob.

Breathe in.

And turn it.

The door creaks open, and the scent of sautéed onions and something vaguely Italian wafts out to greet me. The lights are on. A pan sizzles faintly in the kitchen. It feels… normal.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“Hey, sweetie,” Mom calls from around the corner, her voice casual, light. “You’re home early. I thought you’d be with Harper and Luca.”

I step inside, closing the door gently behind me. “Yeah, I was, but… figured I’d head back. Needed a breather.”

“Good instincts,” she says, then adds with a little laugh, “Also I bought more ibuprofen. Because—well life’s hard.”

Normally, I’d joke back.

But right now?

My throat feels like it’s been tied in a knot.

I toe off my shoes and walk slowly toward the kitchen. Mom’s still at the stove, stirring something in a pan, her scrubs already traded for leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. She looks tired. Not in a defeated way—just worn.

I stop a few feet behind her.

“Hey, Mom?”

She doesn’t turn around, but I see her shoulders shift. “Yeah?”

I swallow.

Hard.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

That gets her attention.

She turns, wooden spoon still in hand, brows drawing together in that instinctive-mom-concern way. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

“No. I mean… not like that.” I rub my arm. “It’s about school.”

Her face goes still.

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Talk to me.”

I stare at the floor. The ceiling. Anywhere but her eyes.

“They… pulled me into the office today. About my records. My school stuff. Apparently, nothing’s come through yet, and they’re starting to ask questions.”

Her mouth tightens.

“And if we don’t do something fast, I think they’re going to pull me from enrollment. Like—expel me.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. Not at me. Just at the situation.

“I see,” she says. Then, quietly, “Okay. Okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll talk to Claire, maybe someone can forge—no, fabricate—something. Transfer documents, transcripts, immunization records…”

Her brain’s already five steps ahead.

But I don’t move.

I don’t speak.

Because this is the hard part.

I feel it coil up in my chest like a storm waiting to break.

“There’s more,” I whisper.

And her eyes snap back to mine.

The spoon in her hand stills.

“Elisa,” she says, voice tighter now. “What more?”

I take a shaky breath.

And say it.

“I think I have to tell them I’m trans.”

The words hang there.

Heavy.

And I wait…

“Well,” Mom says after a beat, setting the spoon down gently on the stovetop. “That would make things easier.”

She turns fully to face me now, arms crossing over her chest—not cold, not angry, just… processing.

“But are you sure you want to do that?” she asks, voice low, careful.

That’s it.

No gasp. No lecture. No “you don’t have to.” No “what if someone finds out?” Just… a question.

I blink.

That’s it?

She barely reacted.

I think.

I stare at her, unsure if I’m relieved or insulted or both. “You’re really not gonna freak out?”

She tilts her head, and for the first time in a while, there’s a flicker of a smile that isn’t born from exhaustion or worry. “Sweetie, after everything this year’s thrown at me? This isn’t exactly breaking news.”

I blink again, harder this time. “But—like—I’m not. Really. Not in the way people mean it.”

She steps forward, gently brushing a hand along my shoulder. “And I know that. You know that. But if saying you transitioned gets them to leave you alone? Then that’s the story we tell. If it keeps you safe? I’ll print the T-shirts myself.”

I look at her, stunned. “You’d really do that?”

She smirks. “Elisa, I’ve got your entire childhood in a shoebox labeled ‘Arin.’ I’m basically committing fraud by letting you live here as your own cousin. If needed, I’d tell them your Canadian school burned down, and your records are stuck under a glacier.”

I blink rapidly, choking back something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I hate how good that actually sounds.”

She pulls me into a hug without another word.

“We can get your name officially changed too,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing over my back. “If that’s what you want.”

My breath catches.

Is it?

No.

Not really.

Not yet.

But also… yes?

Not because I’m ready. Not because I’m sure. But because I’m stuck like this. And if this is who I have to be—who the world sees me as—then maybe it’s better to stop pretending the other name is coming back.

“…I don’t know,” I whisper, voice thick. “It’s not what I want… but I’m already living it. Might as well just… get it over with.”

Mom leans back enough to look me in the eyes. “Okay,” she says simply.

Not pushing. Not judging.

Just—okay.

Then she steps away, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Why don’t we head out now? The courthouse does walk-ins this late. We can handle the paperwork, get some fresh air…” She glances at me, lips lifting into a tentative smile. “Then we’ll pick up dinner after. Anything you want.”

I stand there, stunned for a second.

A government office. A legal name. A brand-new identity, sealed and stamped like it’s always been mine.

Part of me wants to scream.

Another part?

Just nods.

“Yeah,” I say, voice small but solid. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Because I might not feel like Elisa yet.

But maybe… maybe this is how I start to.

“Wait weren’t you in the middle of cooking?” I say a little confused.

“It’s fine I think I burned it anyways.”

Mom grabs her coat, keys in hand, already in get-it-done mode. She’s all calm determination now, mom instincts dialed to max. She looks at me over her shoulder as she slips on her shoes.

“And tomorrow, I’ll come in to the school,” she says. “We’ll talk to the principal together. You won’t be doing this alone.”

I nod slowly. “Alright.”

She watches me a moment longer—measured, knowing. Then she softens a little more.

“And I know you’re worried,” she adds gently, “so we’ll ask if the information can be kept private. That’s completely valid. You have a right to that.”

I shift my weight, fingers tightening around the sleeve of my hoodie.

“But…” she continues, voice lower now, steadier, “it might be better if it isn’t.”

That lands hard.

I meet her eyes. “Better how?”

“Less confusion,” she says. “Less whispers, less guesswork. If people know—really know—then at least the story belongs to you. Not rumors. Not having to try to keep it quiet. Just… truth. On your terms.”

I bite my lip. “But that’s scary.”

“I know.”

She steps closer, brushing a hand over my hair like she did when I was little and pretending not to cry.

“But sometimes scary things are the brave ones.”

I let out a slow breath.

Because yeah… she’s right.

It is scary.

But maybe it’s time I stopped letting fear talk louder than I do.

“I’ll… think about it,” I say quietly, eyes on the floor.

I feel her pause, then smile—the kind that doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure. Just waits.

“Good,” she says. “That’s all I ask.”

And with that, she opens the door and steps into the hallway, keys jingling softly. I follow, pulling on my jacket, still wrapped in this strange, floaty fog of decision and inevitability.

We head down the stairs together in silence. Not heavy silence—just the kind where everything’s been said, and now we’re breathing through it.

Outside, the air is crisp. Cool enough to remind me it’s getting late, but not cold enough to bite. Mom lifts a hand, flags down a yellow cab already slowing at the curb.

It rolls to a stop with a soft hiss.

She opens the door and gestures for me to get in first.

And I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Because once I get in… this is real. Permanent. Names. Paperwork. History rewritten.

Then I slide in anyway.

Because what choice do I really have?

She climbs in beside me and tells the driver, “City courthouse, please.”

The cab pulls away from the curb, the world outside moving faster than I feel.

And all I can think is—

Okay.

Let’s make it real.

I stare out the cab window, city lights flickering against the glass, people passing on sidewalks with their own stories—normal ones, probably. Ones that don’t include shape-shifting goo, high school identity fraud, and… this.

The name change. The principal. The everything.

I lean my head against the window and whisper in my head, “Well this escalated fast…”

“Makes you wonder how long she’s known this would be necessary,” the symbiote murmurs.

I blink. “What?”

It pauses momentarily. Then, with that calm certainty it always seems to have—

“Isn’t it obvious?”

I sit back, heart thudding slightly. Obvious?

That she knew? That this wasn’t just her being supportive—but ready?

My mind flashes back—

The way she didn’t flinch when I said I might need to tell people I’m trans.

How fast she offered to go with me.

That she already knew where to take me.

The calmness.

I swallow hard.

She’s known.

Not just that I’m scared or struggling—but that this? This whole new life? It’s not a phase. It’s not going away. It’s real.

Even if I don’t feel ready.

She does.

She’s been ready for me this whole time.

And somehow… that hits harder than anything else.

I watch the buildings blur past the window, chin resting on my hand, fingers drumming softly against my knee. The cab smells like old leather and spilled coffee, but it’s warm. Familiar. Comforting, in that weird city way.

“At least she’s ready,” I murmur, “even when I’m not.”

“That’s the point of parents, isn’t it?” the symbiote replies, voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

A long beat of silence stretches between us. The kind where you feel something waiting.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“…Do you have parents?”

There’s a pause.

Then “Symbiotes reproduce asexually.”

I squint at the window. “Okay, but like—so… a parent? Singular?”

Another pause.

“…Yes.”

I blink. My stomach flutters a little, but not in the bad way.

“If you get to know everything I think and feel,” I whisper, “isn’t it only fair you tell me something, too?”

The silence that follows isn’t cold. It’s heavy. Like it’s digging through something old and hard to carry.

“I don’t remember them,” it says finally. “But I was born here. In New York.”

My heart skips. “Was it…?”

“No.” The answer is sharp, immediate. “Not that lab. It was a warehouse. They were gone before I emerged.”

Gone.

Just… gone.

I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish you had gotten to know what it’s like…”

I manage a small smile. “But I mean… I guess you kinda can now. My mom’s your mom. A little. Whether she knows it or not.”

“…She makes good food.”

I laugh under my breath.

“Yeah. She does…”

Later, at home, I sit on the edge of my bed with the papers still in my lap.

The official ones.

Stamped. Signed. Processed by a woman behind bulletproof glass who didn’t even blink when she said, “And that’s now your legal name. Elisa Coleman. Female.”

It felt so clinical.

So… easy.

Like changing the shape of your life could happen on a Tuesday afternoon between a stale sandwich and traffic.

I run my fingers along the edge of the envelope. My real name is actually Elisa now. And my gender marker’s changed too. On paper, in the system, in the eyes of whatever tired government server tracks these things—

I’m a girl.

Officially.

It feels… calming, in a strange, distant way. Like the world’s pressure against my skin just eased up slightly.

But also—

Terrifying.

Because now it’s real. Not just something I’m hiding under sweaters and makeup and Harper’s fashion lessons. It’s carved in stone. Inked into records.

What if someone finds out the wrong way?

What if they don’t believe it?

I lean back against the wall, papers still clutched in my hands.

“You are quiet,” the symbiote whispers.

“Just thinking.”

“Still afraid to tell them?”

“Yeah.” My voice cracks. “I know Mom thinks it’s better if people know. And maybe she’s right. But…”

I trail off, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m still not sure I can do it. Not yet. Not like she wants.”

“Then we wait.”

The next morning comes too fast.

The sunlight cuts through the blinds like it’s got a grudge, and for a few glorious seconds, I forget everything. I’m warm. I’m still wrapped in blankets. The outside world hasn’t started demanding things yet.

“Elisa, get ready! We’ve gotta get to your school early today, remember?”

Mom’s voice slices straight through the door.

And bam—reality returns.

Oh. Right.

The principal. The conversation. The explanation.

I groan into my pillow like that’ll somehow delay the inevitable.

“I don’t want to gooooo,” I whine into the mattress.

“You have already legally committed to it,” the symbiote says, ‘helpfully’.

“Traitor.”

I peel myself out of bed like I’m emerging from a grave and shuffle to the mirror. My hair is chaos. My face looks like it lost a fight with sleep and self-doubt.

“You’re fine,” I mutter to myself.

“You are more than fine.”

“Still not helpful.”

I tug on jeans, a shirt, something neutral. Comfortable.

Outside my door, I hear Mom bustling around, keys jingling, coat zipping.

“You’ve got ten minutes!” she calls.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, slipping on my shoes and grabbing the folder with my paperwork.

I stare at it for a second.

Elisa Coleman.

Female.

It’s real.

Time to prove I belong to it.

Even if I’m not sure I believe it yet.

I sling my backpack over one shoulder, still clutching the folder like it might vanish if I don’t keep physical contact. The weight of it feels heavier than it should—just paper and ink, but somehow it carries all the pieces of me that don’t quite fit yet.

When I step into the living room, Mom’s already at the door, coffee in one hand, her purse in the other, her look equal parts nurse-on-a-mission and mom-on-the-verge-of-bulldozing bureaucracy.

She glances up. Her eyes flick to the folder. “You got it?”

I nod.

“Okay.” She gives me a little smile. “You ready?”

I lie. “Sure.”

She doesn’t call me on it.

Instead, we head out into the morning together.

The city’s just waking up. Buses groan at their stops, someone’s yelling about a bagel order on the corner, and a dog in a sweater glares at a pigeon like it owes it money. Same as always.

But for me?

Everything feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something bigger.

We don’t talk much during the walk. She knows I’m spinning too hard in my own head. And honestly? I’m grateful for the silence.

By the time we reach the school, the front doors are still locked for most students. But the front office is already lit.

The receptionist looks up. “Can I help—?”

“We have a meeting with Ms. Alvarez,” Mom says, tone calm but firm. “About my daughter’s student records.”

My heart skips, but I swallow it.

The receptionist nods. “Of course. One second.”

She disappears behind the office wall.

I shift in place, backpack still on.

This is the right step…

But it still feels like stepping into the fire.

The door opens again.

Ms. Alvarez steps out, clipboard in hand, hair neatly pinned back, and that same politely unreadable smile on her face.

“Elisa,” she says. “Mrs. Coleman. Come on in.”

We step into the office, and suddenly everything feels smaller. The blinds are half-drawn. The lights are a little too bright. There’s a fake plant in the corner that’s probably seen more emotional breakdowns than most therapists.

Ms. Alvarez motions to two chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”

I do, slowly, trying not to crumple the folder in my lap. Mom sits beside me, spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Calm. Unshakable.

Ms. Alvarez takes her time, organizing papers, clicking her pen once, twice. She’s not cruel. Not cold. But she’s precise—and that is almost worse.

“So,” she says gently, “Elisa… your enrollment application still has some blanks. Your previous school hasn’t sent any digital records, and we haven’t received a response from the contact information listed.”

I open my mouth—but nothing comes out.

Mom places a hand lightly on my knee.

I take a breath.

Then I pull the folder open and slide the contents across the desk.

Ms. Alvarez raises an eyebrow and begins to flip through.

Legal name change. Gender marker update. ID forms. The works.

She scans quickly—no visible reaction, just a subtle breath through her nose. Then she looks up at me.

“I see.”

My heart thuds in my ears.

“I… didn’t come from Canada,” I say, voice quiet but steady. “That was just… easier to say at first.”

She nods slowly, not interrupting.

“I’m transgender. I transitioned recently. The records were under my deadname.” The word tastes like gravel in my mouth, but I force it out. “But legally, I’m Elisa now. And female.”

The silence that follows is too long.

I feel my stomach twist.

Ms. Alvarez exhales and sets the folder down gently. “Thank you for being honest, Elisa.”

My eyes snap to hers.

No judgment. No discomfort.

Just… a tired, practiced kind of empathy.

“I’ll update your profile today. As long as we have these, your enrollment is secure.” She taps the documents. “If anything else is needed, we’ll reach out to your mother.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

She smiles faintly. “That’s it.”

I slump back in my chair, tension bleeding out of me like air from a balloon. I feel my mom’s fingers squeeze my knee again—quick, proud.

“But,” Ms. Alvarez continues, “one last question would you prefer this to remain private? Or should I notify faculty in case accommodations are needed?”

“Private,” I say, a little too fast. Then again, softer firmer “If that’s okay.”

Ms. Alvarez gives a small nod, not missing a beat. “Of course. That’s entirely your choice.”

She makes a quick note on her clipboard, then closes the folder and stacks it neatly with the others on her desk like it’s not the emotional equivalent of my entire soul laid bare on government stationery.

“No teachers will be informed without your consent,” she says. “Your file will be flagged confidential, and if there’s ever a need for support accommodations, we can work through that discreetly.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, throat a little tight.

I feel Mom glance over at me, her hand still gently resting on my knee. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her approval.

Ms. Alvarez rises from her chair. “That’s everything on our end. You’re officially cleared.”

Just like that.

She offers me a polite, respectful smile. “Welcome to Midtown High, Elisa. For real, this time.”

I blink at her.

Then nod.

And somehow—through the fog of fear, the ache of my still-sore stomach, the lingering awkwardness of a borrowed life—

I feel a little lighter.

“Thank you for being so helpful,” Mom says warmly, rising from her seat with that calm, professional ease she’s always had. “We really appreciate it.”

Ms. Alvarez nods, standing as well. “Of course. I’m glad we could get everything squared away. If anything changes, just have Elisa stop by.”

We step out of the office, the door clicking shut behind us, and for a second, I just stand there in the hallway.

The tension that’s been wrapped around my ribs for days—weeks—loosens another inch. I still feel like a balloon held down by a thousand strings, but at least now I’m not dragging them through quicksand.

Mom turns to me, brushing a hand briefly against my shoulder.

“Alright, honey,” she says with a soft smile. “I’ll see you later today, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, voice quiet but steadier than I expected.

“You have a good day.” She lingers, just long enough to check that I’m okay. Then gives me a little nod and starts down the hallway.

I watch her go for a second, her steps confident, her presence somehow leaving the hallway warmer than it was a moment ago.

“She is proud of you,” the symbiote murmurs.

I swallow hard.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

I lean against the cool metal of my locker, eyes unfocused, just breathing.

It feels weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just… strange.

Like something settled into place without asking.

Like my whole identity got printed out, stamped official, and filed into a drawer before I had a chance to ask if I was ready.

It’s so final now.

This name.

This version of me.

This life.

There’s no going back.

But…

Maybe that’s good?

Maybe it being final means I can stop bracing for it to change. Stop waiting for someone to look at me and go, “Wait you’re not supposed to be here.”

Maybe being stuck like this means I can finally start learning how to be this.

To live in this skin without flinching at every reflection.

To exist without waiting for it to all be undone.

Maybe that’ll help it feel okay.

“You sound… hopeful,” the symbiote whispers, surprised.

I smirk faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

But I don’t deny it.

Because maybe—just maybe—

Being Elisa is starting to feel a little less like pretending.

“Your hormonal levels are returning to normal.”

I blink, halfway through stuffing a book into my locker. “How do you know that?”

“I can feel it.”

I pause. “…Of course you can.”

There’s a subtle, smug hum in the back of my head—like it’s proud of its weird internal diagnostics.

“So,” I mutter, zipping up my bag, “first period’s over, right?”

“Almost.”

I groan softly, forehead thunking against the locker door. “Great. So we’re in the epilogue of misery.”

“The final wave,” it offers cheerfully. “Symptoms should fade soon. Then you will stabilize until the next hormonal cycle begins.”

“Stop saying that like it’s a software update.”

“It is a biological cycle which is similar to an update.”

I shake my head, already trudging toward class.

It’s weird how quickly normal can become a routine again.

It’s been a few days since the paperwork. Since the conversation with Ms. Alvarez. Since Mom made pasta and let me put extra cheese on mine because “cheddar is a coping mechanism.”

And since then?

Everything’s been… weirdly fine.

No shadowy vans. No stalkers. No more dreams from the symbiote’s past clawing their way into my head. Even the cramps are gone, which is almost enough to believe in divine mercy.

School’s still school, but I’m not flinching at every hallway whisper anymore. I even wore eyeliner yesterday. On purpose. Harper nearly cried.”

And now? It’s Saturday.

The three of us are walking through an outdoor pop-up market in East Village—Luca’s carrying two bags of overpriced kettle corn, Harper’s juggling a canvas tote full of vintage records.

“Okay,” Harper says, “but hear me out—if you wore that black dress we found last week with actual boots instead of—”

BOOM.

A sharp noise, like metal snapping or a pipe exploding—and then shouting, screaming, a rush of noise from half a block away.

Luca freezes. “What the hell—?”

We all turn.

Smoke is curling up from a collapsed scaffolding across the street. A construction tarp is blowing wild in the wind, tangled around twisted steel beams.

And under it—

A girl. Trapped. Her screams cutting through the street.

And Harper—

Harper’s already moving.

She runs, bag abandoned on the sidewalk.

“Harper—HARPER!” I shout, already sprinting after her.

Luca curses and follows, but Harper’s faster. She ducks under a beam, rushing toward the trapped girl, waving people back as she reaches for the twisted beam—

And then—

CRACK.

The scaffolding groans, another segment giving way.

It’s coming down.

“HARPER—”

I don’t think.

I don’t plan.

I move.

My clothes are gone in an instant replaced by symbiote erupting across my skin in a blur of crimson and shadow, tendrils lashing forward, catching metal, grabbing Harper by the waist and yanking her backward just as the second structure crashes to the ground.

Right where she was standing.

Dust bursts into the air.

People scream.

And then—

Silence.

Just me. Standing there.

She blinks up at me, stunned.

I lower her gently to the ground.

“…Elisa?”

Oh.

Oh no.

They all saw.

The crowd.

Everyone saw.

I turn, heart hammering like a war drum in my chest.

Eyes.

So many eyes.

Some frozen in shock.

Others wide with wonder.

And worse—

Some holding up flashing phones.

Oh god.

I bolt.

A black tendril fires up, latching onto the edge of a nearby building. I don’t even register the motion—just the need to move. To be gone.

The crowd gasps as I launch upward, air blasting past my ears, vision narrowing to rooftops and sky. Another web. Another pull.

I swing high—one rooftop, then another, then another—and when the final arc ends, I let go and land onto a flat gravel-topped roof, rolling once before collapsing on my back, breath ripping out of my lungs.

I stare up at the sky.

Still cloudy. Still blue.

Still normal.

“What did I just do,” I whisper.

I didn’t think.

I didn’t think.

I’m so stupid.

But—she was in danger.

I would’ve done it again.

No question.

“What was I supposed to do, let her die?” I snap aloud to no one, to everything.

The symbiote doesn’t answer.

It doesn’t need to.

I saved her. I saved her.

And now everyone knows.

Buzz-BUZZZ.

My phone vibrates hard under the suit, and I jolt, breath catching.

I reach down and the device pushes through, smoothly.

Harper.

Oh no.

I stare at it.

Then, slowly… I answer.

“Hello?” I say, voice too soft, too small.

There’s a breath on the other end.

“…Elisa,” Harper says, her voice shaking. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out too fast. “I just—I had to get out of there. Everyone was looking, and walking wasn’t really… gonna work.”

I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the breath still ragged in my throat.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Are you hurt?”

There’s a pause. A shaky breath.

Then Harper says, “No, thanks to you. We’re fine.”

My brain stutters. “We?”

“You grabbed the other girl too,” she says, like it’s obvious. “The one under the scaffolding.”

I blink. “I did? I… I don’t even—” I shut my eyes tight. “I think I did. It’s a blur.”

“You did,” the symbiote confirms quietly.

Harper breathes out, and I can hear how close she came to the edge. “Elisa, people took pictures videos. It’s probably already online.”

My stomach flips, cold and sharp. “Great.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I didn’t want—I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Harper cuts in gently. “But you did what you had to.”

She’s quiet a moment longer.

Then she adds, “And you saved two people. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“And hey,” Harper says, her voice a little steadier now, trying to find the silver lining like she always does. “On the bright side? I don’t think anyone started filming until after you suited up. So… no one knows it’s you.”

I breathe in—slow, deep.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile she can’t see. “Yeah, that’s good, I—”

Then I freeze.

A sensation skims across my spine—not touch, not sound. A tingle. A pulling awareness. Like pressure shifting in a room I haven’t entered yet.

“Something’s watching us.”

My head snaps up.

I turn toward the edge of the roof.

And I see it…

A drone.

Small. Sleek. Black. Floating silently a few stories up and maybe twenty feet away. Not a toy. Not some vlogger’s. This one’s different armored.

My blood goes cold.

“Hey,” I say, voice suddenly flat and razor-sharp, “I have to go.”

“What? What’s—”

“I’ll call you later,” I snap, hanging up before she can ask more.

I don’t think.

I move.

The suit surges forward with me, my arm snapping up and a thick, tendril fires like a harpoon—WHIP-THUNK—and slams into the drone mid-hover.

It squeals mechanically as the tendril yanks hard, wrenching it out of the air and swinging it down in a brutal arc like it weighs nothing.

It crashes into the rooftop with a SMASH—metal folding, shattering and skipping across the gravel like spare change. The drone spasms once, sparks fizzling out of its casing.

I walk toward it slowly.

My fingers twitch, suit still active, tendrils rippling with tension.

I crouch next to it, narrowing my eyes at the shattered casing.

It’s not commercial. No branding.

Just dark plating. Matte.

Alchemax.

It has to be.

The symbiote tightens around my shoulders like a second skin ready to kill. “We are being hunted.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, my voice low, bitter.

“I know.”

I stare at the ruined drone, its body twitching with dying sparks, a little smoke curling from the vents.

“The question is whether they got here before,” I mutter, jaw tight, “or after.”

“It does not matter.”

“It does,” I snap back. “Because if they were already watching, already at this place—then they know who I am.”

The symbiote goes still.

I exhale sharply, pressing my hands against the rooftop gravel. “But no… no. It had to be the videos. Someone must’ve posted something already. A photo, a clip. They must have drones circling the city—watching every corner.”

“And one found us.”

“Yeah.” My voice drops. “Fast.”

I clench my fists.

They were ready. They were waiting. The moment something slipped—even the tiniest glimpse—they launched a unit.

The whole thing makes me feel like the walls of the city are folding in.

“They will not take us.”

“No,” I say softly. “They won’t.”

I move fast, boots crunching on gravel as I cross to the edge of the roof. The broken drone still sparks behind me, but I don’t look back.

Time to disappear.

I leap.

The suit buffers the fall instinctively, tendrils flickering along my arms as I drop into the shadowed alley below, landing in a crouch that sends a soft shockwave through my legs.

The symbiote recedes in a slow ripple, like ink pulling back into my skin, and by the time I step out of the shadows, I look normal again. Clothes reformed, hair a little messy, heart still hammering—but not in costume. Just a random girl.

I glance up at the skyline, breath still short.

Time to get away from this area.

I move quickly down the alley, slipping through side streets and narrow turns. Head down. Shoulders tight.

I slip into a crowd near a bus stop, head down, eyes flicking across every reflection, every passing glance, every person who lingers too long. My thoughts spiral, fast and sharp.

“Okay,” I whisper, half to myself, half to the voice only I can hear. “Let’s think. What do they know?”

“They have footage, pictures,” the symbiote replies, already mid-calculation. “Of us leaving the scene. Not arriving. Not transforming. Only post rescue.”

“They already knew the suit. From the previous incident. Swinging over Midtown. Nothing new visually.”

“And Harper… she was already in danger when I changed. No reason for them to think she was connected to me. Just one of the people I saved.”

“Correct. Unless someone in the crowd gave them more.”

“Like… if someone saw me talking to Harper. Standing near her before the collapse.”

“Or if Harper said something.”

“She wouldn’t,” I whisper. “She knows how dangerous this is.”

“The other girl might not. She could talk to reporters. She could say, ‘This girl tried to save me and her friend turned into a monster.’”

My stomach knots.

I try to picture it—from their perspective. Crowded street. Chaos. Someone with Harper rushes in to help, then becomes something else. People don’t miss things like that.

“They’d only have a description. Not a name.”

“But they’d have a new variable. A pattern.”

“Harper,” I whisper.

“And from there, they follow her.”

I stop walking for a second. Just standing there, feeling the city swirl around me.

“They follow her… to me…”

By the time I reach home, my hoodie’s back up, my hands are shaking, and I feel like I’ve walked through three different lifetimes in one day.

The apartment’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Mom’s not home yet—probably working a double. Good.

I toss my bag onto the couch, pacing a few steps before pulling out my phone. My thumb hovers over Harper’s name for a second too long.

Then I press call.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—click.

“Took you long enough,” Harper says. Her voice is low, steady, but I can hear the tightness underneath it. The kind of tension that only builds when you’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Are you home?” I ask quietly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Luca came over too. We’ve been talking.”

“Talking,” I echo, stomach tensing.

“About you,” she adds. “About what happened. About what we should do.”

I drop onto the edge of the couch, rubbing my forehead. “Okay. Good. Because we need to talk too. About who might’ve seen what, what they think they saw, and what it means.”

Harper is silent for a moment.

“You’re scared.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Because if they follow this trail, it leads to you.”

Another pause.

Then Harper says, voice sharper than before, “And you think I’d say something?”

“No! I—” I sigh. “I’m scared they’ll connect you to me. That some random in the crowd already did. That someone saw us before I suited up. That they’ll use you to get to me.”

There’s a beat of quiet on the line.

Then Harper, flatly “Elisa.”

“What?”

“I’m not scared of them.”

“…You should be,” I whisper.

I close my eyes, the words caught in my throat, burning.

“I think…” I pause. My voice wavers. “I think we need to not be around each other for a while. Just—just in case, okay?”

On the other end of the line, there’s silence.

Then Harper’s voice slices through, sharp and furious.

“Are you kidding?”

My stomach drops.

“Sure,” she continues, voice rising, “maybe if I’m not standing next to you, it’ll be harder for them to ID you—but what happens when they decide to test the waters? When they try something to see who shows up? To see if the symbiote comes crashing through the wall for her little friend?”

I close my eyes. “You go to the cops.”

“The fuck?” Her voice cracks, somewhere between hurt and pissed. “You want me to just run and hope the NYPD handles it?”

“Not then,” I hiss. “Now. You go now. You tell them what happened. That you were trying to help the girl under the scaffolding, and someone saved you. Some kind of monster or hero or whatever. Say you don’t know who it was. Say people nearby mentioned a girl walking near you before it happened—but you didn’t know her.”

“Lie.”

“It’s not a lie, it’s a story. A version of the truth that doesn’t get you taken in the night by some Alchemax black van.”

Harper’s breathing hard on the other end. I can picture her pacing.

“So that’s it?” she asks. “We don’t talk? We don’t look at each other in school? I go play helpless girl while you hide in a hoodie trying to keep me alive from a distance?”

“…Yeah.”

Another pause.

“You’re such a dumbass,” she says quietly, but her voice shakes.

“I know,” I whisper.

“I hate that I get it…”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the phone. The words taste like blood and gravel.

For a second, I don’t think she’ll say anything back.

Then—quiet. Tired.

“…I know.”

The call ends.

I sit there on the couch, the phone still pressed to my ear long after the line’s gone dead.

The apartment is silent.

No sirens. No explosions. No alchemax trucks screeching down the block.

Just me.

Sitting in the quiet.

Alone.

I curl into the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around my knees, hoodie pulled up like it might somehow shield me from the truth. The room feels too quiet, too big. Like the second Harper hung up, everything in here exhaled and left me behind.

“The only way to keep them safe,” I whisper, “is to stay as far away as possible.”

The symbiote shifts inside me—slow and unsure, like it doesn’t agree but doesn’t want to push.

“What about your needs?” it finally asks.

I stare at the dark TV screen across the room. My reflection’s faint in it. Just the shape of me.

“That’s not what matters,” I murmur as it starts to rain outside.

“It does to me.”

The words slip into my chest like a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

But I don’t answer.

Because I can’t.

Because if I let myself matter right now, I’ll fall apart. And if I fall apart, who’s left to protect them?

No one.

And that is what matters.

I turn looking out the apartment window, watching the rain drag streaks across the glass. The city beyond is blurred, smeared in motion like someone tried to paint New York and got too tired halfway through.

“I just have to hope it’s enough,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “Putting distance between us. Not talking. Not looking. Just… doing this...”

The symbiote’s been quieter lately. Still there—always—but less talkative. Like it knows I’m not ready for comfort. Not yet. Like it’s waiting for me to breathe again.

It’s been days.

Days of silence from Harper and Luca.

Days of pretending I’m just another kid in class.

Days of swallowing every instinct I have to turn around when I see Harper or Luca in the hall.

And still… nothing’s happened.

No armed guards. No suits. No late-night knocks.

But that makes it worse.

Because now I don’t know.

Are they waiting?

Are they watching?

Or did the plan work?

“They are still hunting,” the symbiote murmurs at last.

“Yeah,” I say. “I figured.”

I pull the curtain closed.

Because it doesn’t matter if it worked.

All that matters now… is keeping it that way.

I press my back against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees. The apartment feels too still again. I hate how silence clings to everything now.

The symbiote stirs beneath my skin—less like a whisper, more like a thought that knows me too well.

“You’ve pushed away our only friends.”

My chest tightens.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I didn’t have much choice.”

The words hang in the air, bitter and hollow.

“This was the only way to keep them safe.”

“You are alone now.”

“I know.”

“And still in danger.”

“…Yeah.”

“Then what did you gain?”

I shut my eyes, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “I gained time,” I hiss. “Time to figure out what they know. Time to make sure Harper and Luca don’t get dragged into this.”

“And you lose pieces of yourself the longer they’re gone.”

“…I can live with that,” I whisper. “If it means they get to keep theirs.”

There’s silence.

Then a slow, quiet murmur from the symbiote.

“You are brave. But it is a lonely kind of brave.”

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.

“I was already lonely before all this,” I say.

“Now I’m just used to it.”

The next morning comes too soon.

The alarm buzzes with that special kind of cruelty only school days can manage, and for a minute, I just lie there—staring at the ceiling like maybe I can will it to be Saturday. Or never.

The bed’s warm. The apartment’s cold.
And my heart’s somewhere in between.

I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the side. My hoodie’s already on the chair, black and oversized. Safe. Unnoticeable.
Invisible.

In the kitchen, there’s a note from Mom—overnight shift again, love you, be safe—with a banana and a protein bar laid out like that’s supposed to fix everything. I eat the bar anyway.

The train ride is quiet.

Too quiet.

No more Harper sitting across from me, teasing my outfit or poking at my silence. No Luca stealing my food.

Just me.

The solo act.

By the time I step through the school’s front doors, the building already hums with life. Footsteps, laughter, slamming lockers.

I pull my hoodie up a little higher.

Another day of pretending.

Of dodging glances.

Of not looking toward the seats I used to sit at.

But I keep walking.

Because this is the choice I made.

Even if it hurts.

I’m sure Harper would be mad I’ve gone back to the hoodies fully.

She’d make some sarcastic crack like “Wow, glad the fashion apocalypse is back,” or pretend to faint dramatically in the hallway. And maybe—just maybe—she’s noticed. Maybe she saw me this morning and just looked away.

Maybe she didn’t.

“Just keep moving, Elisa,” I whisper under my breath, gripping the strap of my backpack tighter as I walk the halls like a shadow no one’s looking at. “You can do it.”

I get through first period. Then second.

Gym is… fine. I stay quiet. I don’t push too hard. Just enough to not get noticed, not draw stares. After the showers, I’m slow to get dressed—waiting till most of the others are gone so I don’t have to rush or dodge looks.

The locker room is full of steam and the quiet hum of blow dryers.

RRR-RRR-RRR. RRR-RRR-RRR.

The fire alarm screams to life, shrill and blaring, red light flashing across the locker room walls.

Girls shriek.

Locker doors bang open. Water still runs in the showers.

And suddenly—

People are running.

Pulling on whatever clothes they can grab.

I freeze as the remaining girls run out.

The sound claws into my skull like glass dragging across bone.

I stumble, grabbing the locker wall, head pounding, vision swimming. It’s not just the volume—it’s the frequency, vibrating through the symbiote, tearing through both of us like someone tearing directly through.

“What’s happening?” I hiss under my breath, clutching my temple.

“The sound… it is affecting us,” the symbiote growls, its voice fractured and shaky.

I turn toward the nearest alarm, eyes burning.

I don’t even think.

A tendril erupts from my wrist, slicing through the metal box and smashing it against the wall in a single, angry pulse—sparks burst, wires snap, and the shrieking stops.

Despite the ringing outside of the dense room I feel...

Relief.

Instant.

Total.

I pant, gripping the wall, finally able to breathe.

The locker room’s almost empty. The others are gone. Just abandoned clothes, a few towels still on the floor.

“Good thing they ran,” I whisper. “We probably should too. Find out if there’s actually a fire or—”

Footsteps.

But not normal.

Slow. Heavy.

The door creaked open.

“Daughter…”

The word slithers into my spine.

The voice is deep.

Psychotic. Bloodthirsty.

It howls and hisses at the same time, every word dragging in pitch like a glitching monster speaking in stereo.

“I feel you…”

The air turns cold. My throat closes.

I duck behind one of the thick support pillars, breath caught in my chest, heart hammering in my ears.

The locker room feels like it’s shrinking, like the shadows are folding in. My back’s pressed tight to the cold tile pillar, breath shallow, every muscle in my body locked with instinct I don’t even understand.

“Can you feel it too?” the symbiote whispers inside me.

“…Yeah,” I breathe. “I don’t know why. Or how. But I do.”

It’s like gravity shifted. Like something wrong just stepped into the world. And somehow—I know him.

But I shouldn’t.

“I’ve been dying to meet you,” the voice croons from the far end of the locker room.
“But they took you away… They kept you from me.”

I hear wet footsteps echoing in the steam.

“Come meet your papa.”

My stomach lurches.

I can’t stop shaking. I clench my fists to keep them from trembling.

“Who is he?” I whisper.

“I do not know.”

But it does.

And so do I.

Not his name. Not his face.

But I know one thing with absolute certainty.

Whatever just walked in…

It wants me.

End of Chapter 13