Chapter Text
Nam-gyu sat on the closed toilet seat in one of the dingy stalls of the “employees only” breakroom. The space was cramped, the overhead light flickering with an almost mocking inconsistency. It wasn’t nearly as rancid as the usual Club Pentagon restrooms—no piss puddles seeping beneath stalls, no vomit crusting the corners of the sink—but that didn’t mean it was clean. The air still reeked of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the kind of desperation that clung to workers like second skin.
The kind of desperation that clung to Nam-gyu like a second skin, really.
That was when it happened. As cliché as that sounds.
Something moved against his flesh, an almost imperceptible weight shifting on his forearm. Maybe it had crawled onto him. Maybe it had dropped from the ceiling. Nam-gyu didn’t fucking know. He didn’t see the damn thing until it was too late.
A fat, hairy bastard of a spider perched just above the veins he was about to tap. Its legs twitched, in the dim light, as if it had been waiting for the perfect moment to make itself known.
Nam-gyu’s head was tilted back, his sleeve bunched up at his shoulder. Unarmed. The one goddamn moment he let himself breathe, some eight-legged fucker decided to crawl all over him like he was free real estate.
Then came the sting.
Not the sharp prick of whatever substance was in the needle he hadn’t even pushed in yet. No. This was something else. A deep, searing bite. A lightning bolt of pain lanced through his arm, hot and immediate.
Nam-gyu bolted upright, the stall door rattling in front him. The syringe clattered to the floor, rolling in a lazy half-circle near his foot. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out every other sound. The pain was foreign, something primal and wrong, and it fucking hurt like a son of a bitch.
Suddenly, the lights become too harsh for Nam-gyu's eyes to bear. The flickering lights choose that moment to cease, now blinding. It reminded Nam-gyu of spotlights, like cameras filming a new episode ‘Man vs Wild: Club Pentagon edition.’ Only this time, Bear Grylls wasn’t around to eat the fucking spider.
He tries to play it off with humor, but the pain intensifies. He swats the fucking thing away, bracing himself to have to pry the stubborn bastard off his skin, maybe even crush it in his grip—but no. To his surprise, the motherfucker just slips right off, landing upside down on the grimy floor with all the grace of a discarded cigarette butt.
Just like that.
It fucking pissed Nam-gyu off. All that fucking pain, all that show—the sharp sting, the brief panic, the way his whole body had tensed up—just for this goddamn spider to keel over like it never meant shit. Like it hadn’t just sunk its teeth into him. Like it hadn’t just hijacked his one fucking moment of peace.
What a fucking joke.
That one fateful-ass day was two years ago, four months after he turned nineteen.
At this point in his shitty life, Nam-gyu has never been blessed with the feeling of contentment, resorting to unconventional methods just to stay afloat. He can barely remember a time when he didn’t feel those constant pinpricks at the base of his neck, falsely warning him of yet another thing to stress over.
Sure, that paranoia has helped him in a few situations—Pentagon, for example.
His so-called job, if he could even call it that, gives him more legroom than most. Even during working hours, his manager encourages him to weave in with the clubbers, whether they recognize the promoter’s face or not. All for the sake of stuffing a little more green into his pockets and earning recognition from both his boss and the patrons. The added weight of that money brings a fleeting sense of security.
He'll know when a fight's about to break out ‘cause of the warning signals his body unwillingly offers him. Gives him a damn good head start to get the hell out of there.
Nam-gyu’s not some selfless wannabe hero, okay? Screw him. He's a known piece of shit.
It’s easy cash—promoting the club and its exclusive, high-end drugs. He willingly offers his arms, wrist to neck, rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down to sample the club’s regularly modified supply of exotic shit. Free drugs, higher pay, and a few extra hours to enjoy himself before his hands develop a whole new kind of tremor.
They come with all sorts of side effects—before, during, and after. That’s why he only partially gives a shit when a sudden flash of purple streaks past his apartment’s crappy window. Normally, he’d assume it was just a kid on a bike or some bastard sprinting around the block in a half-assed attempt at a late New Year’s resolution.
The problem is, he lives on the damn fourth floor and, quite literally, can't see the ground. Let alone notice someone passing by his building.
The thought only registers in his mind after he bends down to take his second line, then those pinpricks begin to cover the entire base of his neck. He pauses. Yeah, nothing in the sky was that fuckass colour, no matter how many artificial drugs Nam-gyu took that warped his vision, making the world seem brighter than it actually was.
Nam-gyu shoots a suspicious glare at the remaining white powder lined up on his desk, his stomach twisting with something between frustration and unease. He exhales sharply through his nose, running a tongue over his teeth as the thought creeps in—he really needs a new dealer.
He fucking knew this was a scam. Had a gut feeling the moment he handed over the cash, but desperation had drowned out his better judgment. And at the time? He wasn’t just desperate. He was clawing for an escape, for anything that could take the edge off, even if it came wrapped in a lie with a pretty pink bow.
To sum it up, he was really really fucking desperate.
He's almost to the point where he believes he developed some form of schizophrenia along the way, seeing distorted shapes that aren't actually there and glimpses of invisible objects in the corners of his eyes. It's that damn fucking spider trying make him look crazy.
That has to be labelled as one of the strangest fucking things he's ever seen. Because the last time Nam-gyu checked, he was the only one able to swing through the sky.
It took two days for the effects of the bite to fully kick in. Two days for Nam-gyu to realise something was very fucking wrong. Maybe the effects wouldn’t have delayed for so long if an nineteen year old Nam-gyu hadn’t shot up straight after.
Now that the thinks about it, he definitely didn't own anything bright fucking purple either. The colour hits Nam-gyu’s eyes in a way that makes them sting. It’s almost enough to coax him into wearing his uncomfortable ass glasses.
Yeah right. Chance in hell.
Nam-gyu’s about had enough of it when it happens for the third time that same day. Whatever—or whoever—this is, has Nam-gyu on edge, geared up in his suit, even if he won’t admit that it's the reason.
He sits on the floor, back pressed against the frame of his bed, one knee drawn up, fingers drumming impatiently against his thigh, occasionally squeezing to convince the damn thing to stop shaking so much. His gaze stays locked on the same shitty window, the one that barely keeps the cold out and distorts the city lights just enough to make everything feel a little unreal.
He tells himself he doesn’t expect to see that unnatural purple again. That it was just some drug-fueled trick of the light. But his chest feels too tight, his skin prickles with something he refuses to call anticipation, and his foot taps an uneven rhythm against the floor.
Then—there it is. A streak of vivid, electric purple cutting through the murky night sky.
His breath stutters despite himself. His stomach knots.
Yeah. He fucking saw it.
Nam-gyu haphazardly shrugs on a jacket before he leaves. But he doesn’t bolt. Not now. Not at this hour, in this shitty neighborhood, when the wrong kind of noise could bring the wrong kind of attention. There’s a time for swinging out of windows and showing off, but this isn’t it. He can’t afford to be seen. Not tonight.
So he moves quietly. Breath steadying, pulse still too fast but manageable. He slips back into the hallway, keeping his steps light, almost silent against the threadbare carpet. The apartment door clicks shut behind him. No keys, no phone—just muscle memory and a sharp edge of curiosity pushing him forward.
The stairwell smells like old cigarettes and water damage. Nam-gyu would normally gripe about the air being contaminated, nasal passages violated, lungs under siege or some dramatic shit so he could convince his landlord to push back his due date. But he says nothing. He knows the cigarette stench is mostly his fault anyway.
He pauses before turning each corner, eyes scanning, ears tuned for the creak of a door or the scuff of shoes above or below. No one. Just the quiet hum of the building trying to pretend it’s still alive.
When he reaches the top floor, he hesitates at the fire door. Metal warped with rust. A sliver of moonlight bleeds in from the gap at the bottom. He pushes, slow and steady. The hinges protest with a groan, but not enough to echo.
The rooftop air hits him like a slap. Cold, sharp, full of the kind of silence that hums louder than noise. Nam-gyu would give himself a pat on the back for bringing a jacket if he wasn't so anxious. He steps out, scanning the shadows for something he hopes is not actually there.
He sees it—just barely, a twitch of motion in the periphery. Something glints in the dark, almost too quick.
Instinct tugs hard. He ducks.
A strand of something snaps past his face, close enough that he feels the breeze of it, hears the wet thwip as it latches to the doorframe behind him. He pushes himself back until he’s pressed against the cold concrete wall, heart spiking again, this time not from exertion.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, lips barely moving. Whatever’s up here, it’s not just the fucking wind, not a trick of the light, and definitely not a coincidence. The fact that whoever this is caught him on a day when he was mostly sober is a feat in itself.
He barely dodges the next one. It’s closer this time, the aim disturbingly precise compared to the last—just before a sharp, irritated shout cuts through the dark.
“Okay, man! Seriously, what the fuck?”
…
Who the hell does this guy think he is? Talking to Nam-gyu like he’s the one being an ass. Though, at least now he knows where that unnaturally pigmented purple came from. It's like this dude makes it his whole persona. Everything is brightly coloured, even his loose, blue jeans and his strikingly familiar patterned bodysuit.
Nam-gyu should've worn his glasses.
Thanos sat perched on the railing of a familiar, rundown building, his legs dangling carelessly as he hums a tune—one so unrecognizable that even he doesn’t know what the hell it’s supposed to be. Maybe he should be more concerned about his jeans, which are going to need a serious wash after dragging against the grimy floor. Or the possibility of slipping over the edge and free-falling to the streets below. But, really, that kind of thing hasn’t bothered him in years. All of it’s just whatever when you’re a guy like him. Cool as shit.
He doesn’t even really remember getting up here. One minute he was standing in the middle of his apartment, blinking against the too-yellow kitchen light, and the next—It hit him.
That feeling. Like he was falling, even though the ground was still there, solid and unbothered. Like that weird sleep-jump thing—when your brain suddenly panics and body-flops like you've been yeeted off a building.
His grandma used to say it was because angels were carrying your soul to heaven but sometimes those shits got butterfingers and dropped you halfway.
Thanos always knew that was complete bullshit. With the kind of crap he’s done? If anyone’s carrying him anywhere, it’s not an angel—and it’s definitely not up.
Only this time, it didn’t stop.
There was no sudden wake-up. No familiar ceiling to reassure him. Just the sensation of being pulled sideways through reality. Like gravity changed its mind about him.
And when it ended, he was here.
Same city, same air that smelled like old rain and burnt wiring, but everything somehow quieter. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he does: this isn’t quite the same version of the world he left behind. And yet, here he is. Humming. Legs swinging. Like he belongs.
He would call this rooftop familiar—he’s sat in this exact position hundreds of times before—if only it didn’t feel so damn off. The colors are all wrong. Unless that fresh coat of paint smeared on the walls just the other day had somehow deteriorated in record time.
Damn. All that rent just for some cheap, weightless paint. He ought to complain.
And, hey, Thanos isn't the type of guy to really pay attention to what shit covers the walls of random buildings or what new graffiti some punk ass kids drew in dark corners, but this was his spot, man. For real. Endless blunts scuffed out in this exact place are hard to forget. That, and sleepless nights spent sprawled on the floor to escape the bitching from his nosey landlord. She seriously needs to chill out a bit because that lady can nag like it’s her full-time job. Thanos’ rent might be a little behind schedule, but he almost always pays up when he gets the chance or randomly remembers he’s got an actual place to pay off now.
He’s getting there, okay. That chick shouldn’t rush him like she brought him into this world and he owes her some shit like undying respect. Like, relax, lady. There’s no need to act like a rent overlord. If she weren’t such a bitch, Thanos might actually give her a good one just to knock the tension out of her. That’d either mellow her out or get him kicked out on the spot. God, he can already hear the earful Semi would give him.
By the looks of it, they must’ve cleared the place out, because Thanos doesn’t find a single trace of the burnt bud he’d tossed on the floor just a few hours ago. Guess whoever was on cleanup duty finally pulled their damn socks up.
And looks like he won’t have to wash his jeans tonight after all—thank fuck. He hates doing that shit anyway. Still, there’s an annoying little twinge of regret at missing a prime opportunity to rope Min-su into doing him a favor. (Mi-su does his laundry today if memory serves Thanos correctly.) Would’ve been easy, too—just a casual “Yo, throw my stuff in while you’re at it”—and knowing Min-su, he wouldn’t have argued much. Now? Too late. He should probably hit him up soon anyway.
Even though it looks relatively clean, discolored patches stain the ground—like whoever mopped used way too much bleach. Can you even mop up here?
Thanos spots half a dozen crushed cans of beer laying around. Huh, all of a sudden he’s feeling nostalgic. He’d gotten into so much illegal shit as a kid that it wasn’t until he turned twenty that he fully grasped how nearly half the things he did were technically legal now. Still, he instinctively double-checks his surroundings before taking a swig of alcohol—one he had to steal from his dad. Then, he has to remind himself: he lives alone now. He bought that drink with his own adult fucking money and he doesn’t have to ration shit.
Yeah, Thanos isn’t the type to notice trivial crap—stuff that doesn’t prove any interest. He prefers to let things slide past him, keeping his mind uncluttered. Going with the flow. But being the way he is… kinda forces him to notice. It’s instinct, ingrained deep, the kind that makes his skin itch if something feels off. Sometimes, it’s just an inconvenience—like background noise he can’t tune out. Other times? It’s worse. It’s the kind of awareness that drags his nerves tight, that makes his pulse quicken, that forces his mind into overdrive whether he wants it to or not.
That club down in Hongdae was gone when he swung by, hoping to knock back a few drinks. Total letdown of a lifetime. It made Thanos stop and think—where the hell even am I? They had good shit there, and now it’s just gone? One and done? No warning? He swore he’d been single-handedly keeping them in business. Hell, at this point, he could’ve called himself an investor.
He’d probably be less hands-on about it if it didn’t make him feel some typa’ way. A bad way. Like full-on freak-out crap.
Like—Oh, shit. He’s gotta go. Right now.
His gut clenches, an iron-tight sensation winding up in his chest. His fingers twitch, and his breath slows, his body slipping into a familiar, wired state. It’s not often Thanos actually learns his lesson, but this one actually stuck. He's gotten beat up too many times for it not to.
See? Upsides. Words were never really his thing—well, proper words—but he can confidently say this ‘eighth sense’ of his has pulled his ass out of plenty of bad situations. It’s the same sense blaring in his head now, an urgent, piercing demand, like some inner speaker screaming at him to shoot—far left. A blind spot.
And like clockwork, he does. Arm snaps back, aim locked, doesn’t even bother glancing. Whoever was there? They were fucking invisible or something. Most guys who wanna fight Thanos do it head-on.
This one? Sneaky son of a bitch.
Thanos’ arm spasms slightly when he feels nothing snatch at the end of his web. A miss. His gut twists, a flicker of irritation sparking in his chest. Only then does he bother turning around, finally giving a proper look at whoever the hell is about to fuck up his already fucked-up night.
And yeah—his first assumption is practically dead on.
In the midst of it all, Thanos’ ego inflated just a tiny bit more. He can’t help it. This guy? He basically blends into the night. Batman-type shit, holy hell. It almost pisses him off how smooth the bastard is.
But whatever. Bad days happen. He chalks it up to an unlucky shot, nothing more.
Instantly, with newfound vigor, he tries again. This time, he actually aims, jaw tightening, fingers steady as he fires off another shot—determined to weasel this motherfucker out of hiding.
Thanos barely catches it—the way the guy slips just out of reach, too damn quick for his web to keep up.
“Give me a break, man! I just dropped by, and you wanna get the jump on me?” Thanos makes no effort to lower his voice, letting it ring out sharp and shrill, half in accusation, half in an attempt to shame the guy who just tried to sneak up on him.
What he doesn’t expect is the response—equally stressed, though at least this guy tries to keep it together.
“Dude, you’re the one who shot first. Who—who the fuck are you?”
Thanos scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Relax. You didn’t get hurt, did you?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer before barreling on.
“No harm done, my boy.” Just like that, Thanos’ gaze drifts off to the side, like he’s already bored with this interaction before it’s even started.
Nam-gyu watches, half-tempted to snap his fingers or wave a hand in front of his face just to see if he’s still paying attention.
Then, without warning, Thanos snaps his head back toward him so fast it should hurt. It doesn’t, though. At least, he doesn’t look like it does. Nam-gyu, on the other hand, shifts on his feet, unease curling in his gut. There’s something off about this guy—about the way he just stares. Wide-eyed, a little too still, like something just clicked in his brain. Nam-gyu hates being the odd one out. The last to get it.
It’s the same look Nam-gyu catches in his own reflection on the rare occasion he shoots up something nasty—door locked, alone in his bathroom, even though there’s no one else around to accidentally walk in. That kind of distant, dazed wonder.
Thanos suddenly jabs a finger in Nam-gyu’s general direction, but it’s clear he can’t quite tell where he is. Too dark to make anything out properly.
“You—”
It sounds like an accusation, sharp and certain, and Nam-gyu nearly snorts. This guy doesn’t even know him. Can barely see him if the way he’s squinting is anything to go by. Still, his nerve is almost impressive—almost something Nam-gyu could fuck with.
God knows he doesn’t have that kind of confidence, and if there’s one thing about Nam-gyu, it’s that he’s a jealous motherfucker when someone’s got something he doesn’t.
On a good day, he might even find this entertaining. If he weren’t, y’know, on the receiving end of the accusing finger.
“You don’t know who Thanos is?” The guy scoffs, as if the very idea is offensive. “What sad rock have you been living under? Serious? You not a fan?” His whole demeanor shifts in an instant, irritation tightening his brows together.
“Then why the fuck are you here, huh? Also—how’d you do that?” Thanos emphasises the 'you' like he expected someone else to be on this rooftop with him.
The anger fizzles out as quickly as it came, morphing into something else entirely. Interest. Like it never even existed in the first place. And before Nam-gyu can process it, before he can brace himself, Thanos—who clearly doesn’t have a single self-preserving bone in his body—moves closer.
Fast.
Nam-gyu wasn’t expecting the rapid-fire questioning, so he barely manages to latch onto the last one. And even then, his answer is just another question.
“Thanos? That your name, man?” A nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it. A breathy, confused thing that sounds too light for how fucking lost he feels.
Because, seriously, what is happening right now?
He just forced himself out of a high—a high he really, really needed to be on—only to deal with some fast-talking, fast-paced guy in…
Purple. Shit. He’s fucking purple. The bright kind.
Nam-gyu hasn’t even wrapped his head around that yet. Maybe it is his damn dealer screwing him over. Giving him shit that slows his brain down in a way he doesn’t want it slowed down.
Yeah. That’s the last time he’s going to that fucking place. You’d think the drugs would help quiet his mind. Tough fucking luck.
They do—barely, and only for a while. Ever since Nam-gyu got bit, the effects wear off faster, and they never quite hit the spot anymore. It's crazy how an insect that died practically ages ago is still inconveniencing Nam-gyu's life to this fucking day. Talk about bleeding people dry.
"Yeah, that's my name. Cool as shit, right?" He grins, even though he says his next words more seriously. "Answer my question, boy."
It’s been a long day, so Nam-gyu decides to entertain this weird little conversation for a bit longer. Just to see what happens. ‘Thanos’ slammed the brakes on his talking, silently urging Nam-gyu to open his mouth like he's the one with all the explaining to do. And it’s pretty obvious that Thanos doesn’t plan on repeating himself again.
Fuck, who gave him such an ego—feels like it’s crushing Nam-gyu, pressing down on his lungs.
Nam-gyu guesses he kinda has time to recollect himself then. Now that he thinks about it, though… he’s been living in this apartment block for about two whole years now, give or take. Usually, staying longer than a few months was never really an option for a guy like him, but now Nam-gyu can say he’s gotten to the point where he recognizes some of the other residents’ names and faces. Bummer.
And despite that, Nam-gyu’s never seen or heard of this guy before. But here he is—on the fucking roof of his building. Nam-gyu wonders how he even got up here when the only other way to go is down.
"That's kinda what I do? You don't… know that, with the whole spider thing?"
Thanos hums, low in his throat, like he’s paying attention to what Nam-gyu’s saying, but he only leisurely saunters closer in big, exaggerated steps.
"I thought you said you weren’t a fan?" he says once he’s close—not too close, though—just enough to get a good look at Nam-gyu’s figure. Thanos has posed in the mirror enough times to draw those webbed patterns in his sleep. "Why go through the effort to get a black one of all things and wear it? Damn, it’s ruining my brand!"
Naturally, Nam-gyu assumes Thanos is talking about his suit tucked under an extra layer of his clothes. "It’s always been this color, man." Really, Nam-gyu doesn't know what answer this guy is expecting.
"I think I’d know what color my merch comes in," Thanos says matter-of-factly. It’s almost surprising to see that small pout on his face.
"Yours?" Nam-gyu almost scoffs, but he's got to work on his image, so he stops himself. "What are you, Spider-Man?"
“Ding. Ding.” Thanos taps his temple, the sound sharp and deliberate. Like everything else about him, it demands attention. "You calling me a poser? Then what did I shoot you with, huh? A poser couldn’t do none of that!"
Okay, Nam-gyu didn’t mean to take his eyes off Thanos when he said that. It was just a quick check. He knows how bad things get when he gets distracted—he’d get his ass handed to him, and he really doesn’t want to deal with that shit tonight. He just offers a glance to his right, and sure enough, he sees a web plastered to the wall.
No shit.
"Then where the hell have you been? I sure as hell don’t know who you think you are. What is that, some kind of joke? Just decided to show up on my roof on a whim?" Technically, it isn't just Nam-gyu's roof.
"Chill man. To think I've busted my ass for ungrateful shits like you. Jeez!" Thanos folds his arms with a huff, though it doesn’t seem like he’s really ticked off. "You want me to sign your shirt, yeah? That' why you got up here? I'm sorry, man, Thanos has been way too busy these days for autographs. C'mere. Got a marker on you? It'd be better if it's permanent. Trust me."
After taking a few steps forward, Thanos untucks one arm from his chest and points a finger at Nam-gyu in a lazy ‘come here’ gesture.
"Where d’you want it, boy?" he says, all smug.
Nam-gyu doesn't have a marker. And even if he did, he's not handing it over just so he can get his shirt ruined. He doesn't tell Thanos this, however, he does tell him, "No-fucking-where."
A sharp ringing explodes in Nam-gyu’s ears as soon as he gets those words out. Nerves kick in—he jumps forward, grabs Thanos’ wrist, and redirects it just in time for a blur of off-white to shoot past and smack the ground. This time, Thanos used his right arm.
Guess the guy’s ambidextrous. And that's a big fucking word Nam-gyu hates using.
A shiver runs up Nam-gyu’s spine at the contact. He can’t help it—Thanos’ body is just so warm under his palm that he almost regrets letting go, like he’s missing out on siphoning all that heat for himself. Still, that doesn’t distract him from the very real fact that Thanos just tried to shoot him.
Again.
"Lay off already, man!"
Thanos has a real bad habit of not listening. Nam-gyu wonders if it’s just him.
"Told you to come closer, didn’t I? Want me to do all the work myself?" His pout cracks into a wide, unhinged grin. "Fucking hell, how do you keep slipping away, huh? Usually when they play hard to get, I just wrap ’em up in webs. Girls love it."
Nam-gyu doesn’t expect the English that slips from his mouth. If it is English. He’s not even sure. He doesn’t expect the air to change either, to suddenly turn still and heavy, like the world’s holding its breath. Then, everything drops. The ground isn’t ground anymore. It gives, and for a moment, he thinks of roofs—specifically, the piss-poor fucking soul living on the top floor of whatever building he’s about to crash through. But the impact never comes. No crash. No jolt. Just silence. Weightlessness.
He’s floating. Almost.
Then Thanos yells—lunging forward and yanking Nam-gyu into a crushing hold, arms locked around his neck, shoving his face into his chest.
Fuck. Nam-gyu can barely breathe.
“Shit! Uh—yeah, you might wanna grab onto something solid,” Thanos says, his voice tight with actual urgency for once. “This kinda shit happened to me right before I landed in this goddamn place. You don’t still have that joint down in Hongdae, do you? Should’ve known something was off. The one with the pretty girls.”
Nam-gyu doesn’t answer—mostly because he can’t. Thanos still has him in a headlock, his voice rattling in his ear like static.