The atmosphere at Midtown High School was far more somber than usual.
Students clustered in twos and threes, whispering more than ever. Every face wore the same lingering unease—fear etched into furrowed brows and hushed voices.
And every conversation circled back to one thing: last night's "riot" in Hell's Kitchen.
"Have you heard? There was a terrorist attack in Hell's Kitchen last night!"
"My uncle's with the NYPD. He said the scene was hell—bodies everywhere, and lunatics in ninja gear running around. Bullets just bounced off them!"
"It was all over the news. The official line is a gang fight caused gas line explosions… but it didn't look like that at all. My cousin lives on the edge of Hell's Kitchen—he swears he saw a golden light, like the sun!"
"Right, the sun? Your cousin's been watching too much Gundam."
These murmurs faded into white noise in Joren's mind.
Expressionless, he pushed through the crowd toward his locker.
"JoJo!"
A familiar voice called from behind. Peter Parker jogged up, his face pale and dark circles shadowing his eyes—clear signs of another sleepless night. His T-shirt was wrinkled, as if he'd grabbed it straight from the floor.
"Last night... you…" Peter leaned in, voice barely above a whisper, eyes clouded with confusion, concern, and a dozen unspoken questions.
"Were you okay in that theater? That… monster. And Kingpin. And whoever's pulling his strings—"
He trailed off, overwhelmed. What was that creature? Was it gone for good? And then… Iron Man showing up at the very end?
He couldn't find the words to voice the chaos in his head.
"Does it matter, Peter?" Joren said quietly. "Just… be yourself."
With that, he turned and opened his locker.
Peter opened his mouth—then closed it again, swallowing everything unsaid.
He understood.
He was Spider-Man. New York's friendly neighborhood hero. And he had his own battles to fight.
Joren had his.
They were friends—close ones—but some lines weren't meant to be crossed. Some truths didn't need sharing.
Just then, a playful, honeyed voice cut through the tension.
"Well, well. If it isn't our adorable Joestar?"
Joren paused mid-motion as the locker door clicked shut.
Yare yare…
Trouble's back.
Leaning casually against the row of lockers opposite him was Felicia.
Her posture alone drew eyes—half the hallway had already turned to stare.
Long white hair spilled like moonlight over her shoulders. Tight jeans hugged impossible curves, and a simple white T-shirt looked like it belonged on a runway. Her emerald eyes gleamed with feline mischief, sharp and knowing.
"What's wrong?" she purred, reaching out a hand tipped with glossy black nails toward the brim of Joren's hat—almost as if it were part of his shadow. "Didn't sleep well last night?"
She smirked. "Those bags under your eyes are practically dragging on the floor. Out saving the world again?"
Her tone was light—teasing, even—but the glint in her eyes said she already knew more than she let on.
But in those cat-like eyes, there was a glint of inquiry.
Peter Parker's palms were slick with nervous sweat.
The new transfer student, Felicia, seemed unusually interested in Joren.
Joren ignored her and shoved his backpack into the classroom closet.
The cabinet door slammed shut with a sharp bang.
Without sparing her a glance, he turned to leave.
"Hey, don't be so cold."
Felicia moved with feline grace, stepping into his path before he could take a second step.
She crossed her arms and leaned forward just enough to invade his space.
A scent—not quite perfume, not quite skin—wove through the air: something expensive layered over something unmistakably human.
"I'm just curious," she murmured, lowering her voice so only two… maybe three… people could hear.
"All that commotion in Hell's Kitchen last night? Someone who prefers 'quiet' wouldn't have missed it, would you?"
Joren stopped. Slowly, he turned to face her.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah?"
Felicia's smile widened. She lifted a finger to her lips—a gesture too deliberate to be innocent.
"That's quite the coincidence. I happened to be in the neighborhood last night… saw some very interesting 'fireworks.'"
She blinked, and something dangerous flickered in her emerald eyes.
"Golden fireworks. Absolutely beautiful."
…
The school bell rang like a siren of salvation.
Joren was the first out the door.
He declined Peter's offer—"Pizza? We'll check our homework after"—and walked alone through the familiar streets of Queens.
Plane trees lined the sidewalks, their leaves scattering dappled shadows across the pavement.
The air carried the clean, green tang of freshly mowed grass from a neighbor's yard.
Everything breathed peace. Serenity. Normalcy.
That's all he wanted—normalcy.
But trouble came in waves, drawn to him like sharks to blood.
The Hand. Kingpin. S.H.I.E.L.D. Iron Man.
And now this—another elusive, suspicious thief with a smile too sharp for her own good.
He almost missed the days when his biggest problem was calculus.
At least derivatives didn't stake out his porch.
Lost in thought, Joren reached the block where he lived.
Just as he turned toward his house, he froze.
Across the street—
a black Dodge Challenger idled silently at the curb.
Two figures sat inside.
They'd been there since he left that morning.
Their breathing was steady. Heartbeats slow, controlled.
Professionals. Soldiers, maybe.
Their eyes tracked him through the tinted glass—unblinking, patient.
S.H.I.E.L.D.?
Of course it is.
Nick Fury, that one-eyed menace, couldn't let anything go.
Joren raised a hand and nudged the brim of his hat upward.
He didn't pretend not to notice them.
Instead, he met their gaze head-on—calm, unflinching.
Yare, yare.
Even the sidewalk in front of my house isn't clean anymore.
As he stood there, locked in silent confrontation with the surveillance car, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
An encrypted number. Unknown.
Frowning, Joren answered.
"Hello."
A voice slid through the receiver—flirtatious, self-assured, laced with amusement.
"Hey, cool kid. Don't sweat it. Those aren't my people."
Tony Stark.
"Honestly, Fury's taste is so… utilitarian. If I were tailing someone, I'd at least spring for an Aston Martin. Classier. More dramatic."
Joren said nothing. He didn't need to.
Stark kept talking, as if conversation were a monologue he'd rehearsed just for this moment.
"How about
it? Stark Industries. Tour. Coffee that doesn't taste like regret. And hey—some of the stuff in my lab might actually be more fun than your calculus homework."