Archive of Our Own

Hello, my name is Ahn Keonho.

A radioactive spider bit me, and I became Spider-Man.

My job is simple enough: protect Seoul from falling apart. I have superhuman strength, razor-sharp reflexes, the uncanny ability to cling to vertical glass, and yes—webs. Real, tensile webs. Straight from my wrists. Don’t ask me how the biology works; I stopped asking questions a long time ago.

Being Spider-Man is straightforward, actually.

Someone’s in trouble? I step in.

Someone’s about to get hurt? I break the fall.

Someone tries to rob a corner mart at three in the morning? Well… they’ve made a remarkably poor career choice.

It’s not always glamorous. There are nights when I get thrown clean through reinforced drywall. There are mornings when every muscle and tendon in my body throbs in protest. Sometimes I spend an entire evening chasing the same idiot across half of Seoul only to watch him trip over his own untied laces in an alleyway.

I obviously can handle that. I’ve learned how to take the hits. I’ve learned how to patch myself up.

There is just one thing I haven’t figured out yet: how do you live when everyone you love has forgotten you ever existed?

🕸️ 

The city was breathtaking from high above.

Keonho crouched on the narrow ledge of a glass skyscraper, one gloved hand resting against the chilled concrete as the night wind whipped against his suit. Seoul stretched out endlessly beneath his boots—a sprawling ocean of neon and shadow.

Thousands of apartment windows glowed in warm, scattered grids. Headlights traced ribbons of white and red through the major avenues. Down there, inside the warmth of the city, people were laughing over shared meals in crowded barbecue joints, bickering with old friends, rushing home on the last subway line, or meeting someone under the streetlamps for the very first time.

Normal lives.

He caught himself wondering what that felt like.

The sharp vibration of his phone inside his suit pocket broke the trance. Keonho pulled it out, screen glowing against the dark.

No notifications. No missed calls. No unread messages.

He stared at the blank lock screen for a quiet second before clicking it shut. There was no one on the other end to text anyway.

That was the strangest part about losing everyone. The world hadn’t gone silent in their absence. If anything, it had become unbearably loud. The city kept turning. Strangers kept talking. People kept sharing inside jokes, celebrating birthdays, marking anniversaries, and reciting embarrassing childhood stories over late drinks.

They just didn't remember him.

Keonho had learned not to dwell on it for too long. Thinking didn't undo the past, so he pushed himself up onto his feet.

In the distance, the sharp wail of a siren cut through the traffic hum. Almost instantly, the familiar prickle of his spider-sense flared behind his temples. Keonho let out a low sigh, “Of course.”

He pulled the mask down over his face, rolling the crimson fabric flush against his jaw. Then, he stepped off the edge.

By the time he swung into the adjacent district, the local police were already securing the perimeter. It was a standard break-in at a late-night convenience store.

Keonho anchored himself upside down against the brick facade of a neighboring building, silently watching the scene unfold below. Three officers stood near the shattered glass. A shaken cashier was gesturing rapidly with both hands. A handcuffed suspect was already being guided into the back of a squad car.

Keonho tilted his head, the white lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. “Well,” he muttered to the empty air, “that was easy.”

He coiled his legs to push off into the night when his spider-sense suddenly spiked—sharp and urgent.

He froze mid-motion. Something was wrong.

Keonho snapped his head across the four-lane avenue. A young woman stood halfway into the pedestrian crosswalk, her attention buried in her earphones, completely blind to the heavy delivery truck barreling through the intersection without slowing down.

“Oh, come on.”

He launched himself from the wall.

THWIP.

A web-line shot from his wrist, anchoring firmly to the arm of an overhead traffic light. Keonho swung through the blind spot of the intersection, arcing downward in a smooth, violent sweep. He scooped the woman by the waist, wrenching her back onto the curb a split second before the truck roared through the crosswalk with a deafening blast of its horn.

The woman let out a sharp gasp. Keonho absorbed the momentum with his knees, landing steadily on the pavement beside her.

For a beat, neither of them moved. The air between them smelled of burning rubber and cold exhaust. She blinked up at the stark white eyes of his mask. “…Spider-Man?”

Keonho flashed a quick, easy thumbs-up. “Spider-Man.”

“Thank you… thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” He glanced down the road where the truck’s taillights were already disappearing around the bend, then looked back at her. “Maybe look both ways next time?”

She nodded frantically, clutching her coat.

Beneath the mask, Keonho’s mouth curved into a faint smile. This was the part of the equation he understood. Someone was in danger; he pulled them out of harm's way. Simple. Clean. Direct.

He didn't need the world to know the name of the boy behind the mask. He just needed to know that someone went home safe tonight.

At least, that was what he told himself every time he swung away.

Late into the night, Keonho slipped through the window of his apartment.

It was a small, utilitarian studio—too small by most standards, but there was no real reason to pay for more space when it was only meant for one. He pulled off his mask, tossing it onto the low coffee table, and kicked off his boots by the entrance. The familiar, hollow silence of the room greeted him. It always did.

Keonho crossed over and opened the refrigerator door. The pale light revealed empty shelves. He shut it, waited a second, and pulled it open again. Still completely bare.

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Forgot groceries. Again.”

Resigned, he fished his phone out and tapped through a quick delivery order. While he waited, he sank onto the worn sofa. His gaze drifted across the room toward the small bookshelf against the wall. There wasn’t much left on it. A stack of used textbooks. A laminated newspaper clipping featuring Spider-Man.

And a single framed photograph.

Keonho found himself staring at the frame.

Two boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder under the harsh fluorescent awning of a convenience store. One was him. The other was—

Keonho looked away, staring at the floorboards instead.

He didn’t actually need to look at the picture to see it. He had every line and shadow of that memory permanently etched into his head. Seonghyeon’s untamed, messy hair. The crooked, half-cocked smile he always wore when he found something stupidly funny. The cold can of sweet coffee he held loosely in his left hand. And Keonho, leaning his weight right against Seonghyeon’s shoulder like they had all the time in the world.

They had been seventeen. Back when seventeen felt like the beginning of an endless horizon.

Before the rift, before the spell. Before Spider-Man became the only identity he had left to hold on to.

Before Seonghyeon forgot he ever had a best friend.

Keonho reached out and lifted the frame. His thumb traced lightly over the cool surface of the glass, lingering over the boy with the crooked smile. “Hey,” Keonho said softly. The sound of his own voice felt startlingly fragile in the empty room. “I hope you’re doing okay.”

He carefully set the frame back in its place.

His phone buzzed on the cushion beside him: Order arriving in 15 minutes.

Keonho looked down at the bright notification and let out a dry, breathy laugh. It was pathetic, really. He had officially become the kind of person who had full-blown conversations with still photographs.

That was just what happened when you became the sole keeper of your own history.

Three days later, he saw Seonghyeon again.

Keonho was swinging high across the western district when his spider-sense flared unexpectedly—not with danger, but with an abrupt, electric pull. He dropped onto the gravel roof of a low commercial building and crouched, scanning the street below.

Nothing seemed out of place. No shattered storefronts. No reckless drivers. No screams echoing through the alleys. He frowned beneath the mask. His senses were rarely mistaken.

Then he looked directly down at the sidewalk below the café.

His chest seized; his breath caught in his throat.

Seonghyeon.

He was standing right outside the glass doors of the coffee shop. Alive. Healthy. Entirely unaware of the world watching from above.

Keonho froze. He hadn’t laid eyes on him in months.

Every rational instinct told him to turn around, shoot a web, and vanish into the skyline. He had no right to linger. He knew that. But his boots felt like they had been cast in solid concrete.

Seonghyeon stepped out toward the main street, balancing a takeaway coffee cup in one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. He took two absent-minded steps onto the pavement just as an erratic bicycle courier swung around the corner.

Seonghyeon jerked backward on pure instinct. The sudden movement sent his iced coffee sloshing over the plastic lid, splashing dark stains straight across the tops of his sneakers.

He froze, staring down at the disaster at his feet. He squeezed his eyes shut, tilted his head back, and let out a long, defeated exhale.

“Of course.”

On the rooftop above, Keonho’s mouth twitched into an involuntary, aching smile.

He remembered that exact sigh. He had heard Seonghyeon make that same defeated noise hundreds of times over spilled drinks, forgotten homework, and missed buses. Some things never changed.

Seonghyeon pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket, hurriedly dabbing at his shoes before tucking his phone away with a faint shake of his head.

He looked exactly the same as he always had and yet, Keonho knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t.

Because the Seonghyeon standing down on that sidewalk didn’t know the name Ahn Keonho. Didn't remember the sound of his laugh. Didn't know that Keonho had spent sleepless nights wondering if he was eating regular meals, or that Keonho still knew his exact ramen order by heart. Didn’t know there had been a time in their lives when they couldn't go twenty-four hours without trading insults or sharing a walk home.

Seonghyeon simply existed in the world now. Entirely intact, but without him.

Keonho watched as Seonghyeon adjusted his backpack and began walking toward the university gates down the road. Keonho knew he should let him go.

Instead, he leaped quietly to the next ledge, trailing from above.

Not close enough to cast a shadow nor draw a single glance. Just close enough to watch over him until the gates came into view. He told himself it was just what Spider-Man did. Protecting the neighborhood was his responsibility, nothing more. But deep down, in the quiet spaces beneath the red suit, Keonho knew the simple truth.

He would have followed Seonghyeon anywhere. Even if Seonghyeon no longer remembered the way back to him.

🕸️ 

Eom Seonghyeon had always considered himself a reasonably careful person.

He checked both sides of the street before crossing, even on one-way alleys. He remembered to charge his phone to a pristine one hundred percent before stepping foot outside his apartment. He kept a sturdy, double-ribbed umbrella perpetually stowed in the bottom compartment of his backpack because he was convinced the Seoul weather forecasts held a personal, spiteful vendetta against him. He even instinctively lowered his eyes to double-check his footing before stepping onto escalators.

None of it ever helped.

Something always happened. It was rarely anything life-threatening—just inconvenient, endlessly annoying, and occasionally deep-down humiliating.

Like the time he’d bought a large iced americano, took two steps out of the café door, and somehow managed to flip the plastic cup into his own chest. Or the time his umbrella ribs snapped in unison during a sudden downpour on the Mapo Bridge, transforming his shelter into a useless, soaked kite. Or the time he had spent twenty excruciating minutes tearing his entire apartment apart looking for his phone, only to realize he was using its flashlight feature to search under his own bed.

His high school best friend had once thoughtfully suggested that Seonghyeon was simply born under a localized cosmic curse. Seonghyeon had told him to shut his mouth. Juhoon had proceeded to laugh for approximately five uninterrupted minutes.

Today was shaping up to be no different.

Seonghyeon stood outside the main entrance of the university library, leaning against a granite pillar and staring blankly at his laptop screen.

The display was pitch black.

He pressed the power button. Nothing. He held it down for five agonizing seconds. Still nothing.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath. He tapped the trackpad furiously. “Come on. Not today.”

The screen remained a cold, lifeless mirror reflecting his own desperate expression.

Seonghyeon squeezed his eyes shut and let out a defeated groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Talking to it isn’t going to magically jump-start the lithium battery, you know.”

Seonghyeon opened his eyes and looked sideways. Juhoon was casually leaning against the opposite side of the pillar, holding two tall paper coffee cups from the campus convenience store.

“Don’t,” Seonghyeon warned, pointing an accusatory finger.

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Juhoon replied smoothly.

“You were going to.”

“I was literally going to say good morning.”

“No, you weren’t. You had that smirk.”

Juhoon extended his left arm, offering one of the cups. “Good morning, Seonghyeon.”

Seonghyeon accepted the cup, the heat radiating through the cardboard sleeve comforting his numb fingers. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Juhoon took a slow sip from his own cup, his eyes drifting over to the dark laptop screen. “Dead?”

“Completely dead.”

“Did you charge it last night?”

“Yes, I charged it.”

“Did you actually plug the wall adapter into the outlet, or did you just plug the cable into the laptop side and call it a day?”

Seonghyeon’s eyebrows knitted together in a sharp frown. “…I plugged it in.”

Juhoon waited in absolute, heavy silence, raising one eyebrow with practiced efficiency.

Seonghyeon let out a long, heavy breath that made his shoulders slump. “Probably.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why are you like this?” Seonghyeon muttered, taking a cautious drink of his coffee.

“Somebody in this dynamic has to take responsibility for keeping you alive,” Juhoon said matter-of-factly, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag.

“I’m fully alive, thanks.”

“Technically. Functionally, you’re an ecological hazard to yourself.”

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes, pushing off the pillar as they began walking together up the broad stone steps leading into the library plaza.

They passed through the glass automatic doors into the air-conditioned hush of the university library. Seonghyeon navigated through the maze of wooden bookshelves until he found an empty study table tucked near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the western courtyard. He unceremoniously dropped his heavy canvas bag onto an wooden chair and pulled out his useless laptop.

He had a major research assignment due for his seminar by midnight tomorrow. His primary work device was currently acting as an extremely expensive paperweight. His phone battery was hovering precariously at twelve percent because he’d forgotten to plug that in, too. He had skipped breakfast in his rush to catch the bus and to top it all off, he had managed to splash three drops of dark roast coffee directly onto the toe of his right sneaker during the stairs incident.

It was barely ten o’clock in the morning.

He was going to have a fantastic day.

🕸️ 

The very first time Seonghyeon had encountered Spider-Man in the flesh, he had been entirely convinced his life was ending.

Not because Spider-Man was intimidating or hostile, but because Seonghyeon had been suspended three stories in the air on a rusted emergency fire escape when the iron handrail sheared clean off the wall.

It had been a completely absurd accident. He’d been leaning over the side to see where his keys had fallen after slipping through the grating gaps. He had leaned just two inches too far. The ancient metal gave out with a screech of rusted bolts, gravity grabbed him by the throat, and he was suddenly plummeting toward the concrete alley below.

And then—a sudden, sharp jerk across his ribcage.

A solid, muscular arm had wrapped firmly around his waist, arresting his drop with astonishing force. A thick, white cable shot upward with a sharp THWIP, anchoring to the roofline above. For three agonizing seconds, Seonghyeon couldn't even form a coherent thought. His heart was violently thrashing against his ribs.

Spider-Man was hanging entirely upside down from the web line, his knees hooked casually around the strand. Seonghyeon was dangling horizontally in mid-air, held securely by one arm like a sack of groceries.

Neither of them said a word. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic from the main avenue.

Then, the white eye-lenses of the mask expanded slightly, and a voice spoke:

“Hi.”

Seonghyeon blinked once. Twice. “...Hi.”

“Are you doing okay down there?”

“I think so.”

“Great. Glad to hear it.”

With a single, effortless movement of his core, Spider-Man swung them both upward, flipping Seonghyeon neatly over the structural beam and landing him solidly back onto the concrete platform of the lower fire escape landing.

Seonghyeon stood there, clutching the brick wall, his brain still desperately trying to process the physical impossibility of what had just happened.

Spider-Man crouched on the narrow edge of the fire escape, looking down at him. “You know, you should probably consider stopping that,” Spider-Man said, tilting his masked head.

Seonghyeon blinked, still out of breath. “Stopping... what?”

“Falling off structural urban elements.”

Seonghyeon stared at the red-and-blue pattern on the suit. “I wasn’t trying to fall.”

“Well, that’s good,” Spider-Man replied, gesturing with two fingers toward the shattered, dangling piece of iron rail. “Because honestly? You’re really, really bad at it.”

Seonghyeon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you making fun of me right now?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You definitely are.”

“I assure you, I am a professional hero operating in the Seoul metropolitan area.”

“You’re literally laughing under that fabric.”

Spider-Man’s shoulders were noticeably shaking. A small, muffled snort escaped the suit before he quickly cleared his throat. Seonghyeon crossed his arms over his chest, scowling up at him. “You know, you have terrible bedside manner for a masked vigilant.”

“I apologize profusely.”

“You don’t sound sorry at all.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

And before Seonghyeon could formulate a proper comeback, Spider-Man pushed off the iron railing, shot another web strand toward an adjoining roof, and launched himself effortlessly into the sky.

Seonghyeon had stood on that fire escape for five straight minutes, watching the distant red outline blur against the sunlight. Against his better judgment, a small, genuine smile had crept onto his face.

He had brushed it off as a once-in-a-lifetime weird statistical anomaly. A bizarre story to tell at dinner.

Until it happened again.

And then again.

And then a fourth time.

The second time, Spider-Man had yanked him out from under a wooden construction sign that had slipped off its mounting hooks over a shop front. The third time, he had casually stopped a heavy, runaway street cart loaded with produce that was rolling down a steep incline straight into Seonghyeon’s back. The fourth time, he had literally caught a delivery cyclist who had lost control of his brakes on a wet sidewalk, scooping Seonghyeon out of the way before the collision occurred.

By the fifth time, Seonghyeon’s analytical mind had officially crossed the line from gratitude to deep, unsettling suspicion.

He was walking back to his apartment after an evening lecture when a distinct, lightly metallic voice called out from directly above his head:

“Seonghyeon!”

Seonghyeon stopped dead in his tracks on the sidewalk. He slowly tilted his head up.

Spider-Man was crouched on top of a streetlamp pole, his boots wrapped comfortably around the metal housing, looking down like a gargoyle.

Seonghyeon stared. “How do you know my name?”

Silence descended on the empty street. A long, painfully stretched silence.

Spider-Man slowly, deliberately lifted one gloved hand and pointed down toward Seonghyeon’s chest.

“You... literally have a laminated university ID badge clipped to your jacket zip?”

Seonghyeon looked down. The white plastic student pass was indeed dangling right there over his sternum, his full name printed in bold black Korean lettering.

He looked back up at the lamp post. “Oh.”

“Yeah."

“Right.”

“Right.”

Neither of them moved. The wind rustled the leaves of the ginkgo trees along the curb.

Then, Seonghyeon let out a sudden, involuntary burst of laughter.

Spider-Man immediately snapped his head away, looking abruptly across the street as if suddenly deeply interested in the architecture of a bakery building. Something about the swiftness of the reaction felt strangely exposed—like a kid who had been caught red-handed with his hand in the snack jar.

Seonghyeon tilted his head, stepping closer to the base of the streetlamp. “Do I actually know you?”

“No.” The answer came back instantaneous, sharp, and entirely too fast.

Seonghyeon narrowed his eyes, analyzing the posture of the figure above him. “Okay...”

Spider-Man dropped gracefully from the top of the lamp post, landing soundlessly on his boots before taking two quick steps backward into the shadows of the alley. “Have a very safe, extremely careful walk home, Seonghyeon.”

“Wait a second!”

Spider-Man paused, his hand hovering over his wrist shooter.

Seonghyeon looked up into the unblinking white eye lenses. “Why do you keep showing up? Why do you keep saving me specifically?”

Spider-Man remained motionless for a few seconds. Then, he gave a casual, dismissive shrug of his shoulders.

“Bad luck?”

Seonghyeon’s frown deepened. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It is if the universe is looking at your personal track record,” Spider-Man replied, his voice softening slightly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The lenses of the mask narrowed in what looked suspiciously like a hidden grin. “See you around, Seonghyeon.”

THWIP.

He was gone before Seonghyeon could open his mouth to protest, swinging across the skyline in broad, soaring arcs. Seonghyeon stood on the deserted pavement for a long time, hands buried in his pockets. “...Unbelievable.”

That night, sleep completely eluded him. Seonghyeon lay flat on his back in his tiny bedroom, staring up at the patterns of streetlights dancing across the plaster ceiling.

There was something undeniably wrong about the whole thing. Something about Spider-Man’s presence didn't fit the standard narrative of a local superhero patrolling a massive city of nearly ten million people.

It was the familiarity.

Not his face—he had never seen beneath the cloth. Not even his voice, which was clearly muffled and altered slightly by the density of the suit fabric.

It was the specific rhythm of the interaction. The exact, unscripted cadence of his humor. The effortless way he teased him, as if he possessed an intimate, pre-existing knowledge of Seonghyeon’s exact triggers and reactions. It was the way he seemed to materialise out of thin air seconds before Seonghyeon was about to do something clumsy.

It was almost as if—

No, Seonghyeon cut the thought off firmly, rolling onto his side. Don't be ridiculous.

He didn't know superheroes. He was an ordinary university student with bad shoes and a broken laptop. Spider-Man was a masked vigilante who probably had a hundred important things to do every night. It was pure statistical coincidence.

His phone vibrated against the nightstand, the screen illuminating the dark room.

shoulder kimchi: are you alive or did you trip on your bedsheets

Seonghyeon reached over, unlocking the device with a sigh.

knee panini: unfortunately i survived.

shoulder kimchi: excellent. i need your lecture notes for chapter 4 tomorrow morning don't be late

knee panini: die

shoulder kimchi: love you too buddy

Seonghyeon smiled softly, setting the phone screen-down on the wooden desk beside his bed. As he withdrew his hand, his fingers caught the edge of a small wooden frame resting near his desk lamp. He paused.

He didn't remember moving that frame to the front of his desk.

He sat up on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to pick up the photograph. It was a glossy print from his high school years—a group of students gathered near the main gates after an autumn sports day. Seonghyeon recognized himself immediately in the center: seventeen years old, wearing a gym uniform that was slightly too big for him, squinting into the sunlight.

Beside him were several classmates he recognized vaguely, but his eyes dropped to the far right edge of the print.

The photograph had been damaged.

A clear, physical void existed where another person had clearly been standing next to him. It wasn't a clean tear, nor was it simple wear-and-tear; the paper itself looked strangely degraded, as if the ink in that exact rectangular shape had simply ceased to exist, leaving a ghostly, blank grey patch right beside Seonghyeon’s shoulder.

Seonghyeon turned the frame over, popping the back tabs to inspect the original print. Nothing was written on the back.

He stared at the blank grey void on the front.

A strange, sudden tightness gripped his chest—a sharp, hollow sensation that felt suspiciously like grief, though he couldn't formulate a reason for it. He knew, with an absolute and terrifying certainty, that someone vital had been standing right there. Someone whose arm had probably been slung over his shoulder. Someone who had mattered immensely to his life.

He tried to force his brain to pull up a name. A face. A voice.

Nothing came. Just a vast, cold expanse of white noise.

Seonghyeon shook his head, his brow furrowed in frustration. He placed the frame back onto the wood desk. It was just an old, defective print from a cheap convenience store photo kiosk. He laid back down, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and finally fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

The following morning, Seonghyeon opened his laptop in the campus cafeteria, pressed the power button out of pure habit, and nearly choked on his water when the screen instantly flared to life, displaying his desktop background without a single error message.

Seonghyeon stared at the screen in utter disbelief. “Seriously? You’re working now?”

Juhoon sat down across from him, setting down a tray with two breakfast rolls. “Hey, congratulations. The machine resurrected itself.”

“I genuinely despise technology,” Seonghyeon groaned, slumping back in his chair. “I spent three hours stressing over this last night.”

“You were literally threatening to throw it into the Han River yesterday afternoon.”

“And I meant every word of it!”

“You say that every single week,” Juhoon pointed out, unwrapping his roll. “Come on, finish your coffee. We have to cross the boulevard to reach the seminar building.”

They packed up their bags and stepped out into the bright mid-morning sunlight, joining the steady stream of students moving across the urban campus. Seonghyeon was in the middle of an animated, hand-gesturing complaint regarding the sheer volume of reading assignments assigned for his afternoon class when a sharp impact hit him dead center in the back.

THUD.

A heavy paper cup exploded on impact against his jacket, splashing tepid, milky coffee across his shoulder blades and down the hem of his coat.

Seonghyeon stopped dead in his tracks.

Juhoon stopped beside him, his mouth slightly open.

Seonghyeon slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder at the brown stain spreading across his clean outerwear. The student who had thrown or dropped the cup was nowhere to be seen, completely swallowed up by the surging crowd of commuters.

Juhoon slowly turned his head toward Seonghyeon, his chest rising as he took a deep breath.

“Don’t you dare,” Seonghyeon warned, his voice dangerously low.

“I didn’t say a single word,” Juhoon insisted, though his cheeks were visibly puffing out as he fought to suppress a massive grin.

“Do not make a single sound, Juhoon.”

Juhoon immediately clamped both hands over his mouth, his entire frame shaking with suppressed laughter.

Seonghyeon glared at him with pure hatred. “That’s it. I’m going straight back to my apartment. I’m done with today.”

“You have a mandatory presentation in nine minutes!” Juhoon managed to choke out through his fingers.

“I don't care if the entire department burns down, I am not sitting in an auditorium smelling like stale espresso!”

“Seonghyeon, just take the jacket off!” Juhoon reached out, grabbing his sleeve to pull him away from the crosswalk edge. “Come on, stop being dramatic—”

Neither of them noticed the masked figure crouched high above on the rusted overhang of the rooftop across the main avenue. Ahn Keonho watched the entire scene through the magnified lenses of his mask. He had seen the exact moment the careless student two paces behind Seonghyeon had tripped over his own loose shoe lace, sending his morning drink flying through the air like a projectile.

Keonho had actually leaned forward, his thigh muscles coiling to leap down and intercept the flying cup before it hit his target.

He had stopped himself at the absolute last second. Jumping off a four-story building to catch a floating latte was well beyond the threshold of normal superhero activity. It would have drawn an entire crowd of witnesses.

So, he had stayed on the ledge, watching Seonghyeon fume and wave his arms in frustration while Juhoon laughed at his expense. Keonho let out a soft, dry laugh under his mask. “You really are the unluckiest guy in this entire city, Seonghyeon.”

A small, affectionate smile touched Keonho’s lips behind the fabric.

Then—

BZ-ZZ-ZZ-T.

A violent, electric shock tore through the back of Keonho’s skull. His spider-sense didn't just tingle; it roared like a physical siren, making his vision flash red around the edges.

DANGER.

Keonho’s head snapped toward the far end of the avenue.

A heavy black SUV had just blown through a solid red traffic signal three blocks down. The driver was visibly slumped sideways over the center console—unconscious or suffering a medical emergency. The vehicle was accelerating rapidly, mounting the curb, tearing through metal traffic barriers, and veering wildly out of control directly toward the pedestrian crosswalk where Seonghyeon and Juhoon were currently standing.

Keonho’s blood ran dead cold.

“Seonghyeon!”

He launched off the roof.

Seonghyeon heard a sudden, roaring crescendo of screeching tires and shattering metal.

He turned his head toward the sound just in time to see a massive wall of black metal plow straight through the pedestrian signal post thirty feet away, sending sparks and debris flying into the air. The SUV was coming straight for him, moving at a terrifying speed.

His legs completely locked. His brain registered the danger, but his body refused to move.

Move, he screamed at himself. Move!

Everything shifted into extreme slow motion.

A red-and-blue shadow dropped out of the sky like a falling meteor.

A pair of strong, gloved hands slammed into Seonghyeon’s chest, shoving him violently backward out of the trajectory path. Seonghyeon hit the pavement hard, rolling onto his side as a sharp THWIP echoed over the roar of the engine.

Keonho fired two heavy webbing lines straight into the front bumper of the runaway vehicle, anchored his boots into the asphalt, and pulled back with every ounce of superhuman strength in his frame.

The muscles in Keonho’s back screamed under the massive kinetic force. The tires of the SUV shrieked against the street, leaving deep black rubber burns on the road as the vehicle finally ground to a violent, jarring halt just two feet from where Seonghyeon had been standing a second prior.

Dust, smoke, and steam billowed into the air.

Pedestrians were screaming, running in every direction. Juhoon was on his knees five feet away, stunned and gasping for air.

Seonghyeon pushed himself up on his elbows, coughing through the grey smoke. Standing right in front of him, framed by the haze of the engine radiator, was Spider-Man. The hero was chest-heaving slightly, his gloved fingers still wrapped tightly around Seonghyeon’s wrist, where he had held him during the throw.

For three terrifying, frozen seconds, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, Spider-Man released his grip, stepping back.

“Are you... hurt?” Spider-Man asked. His voice was ragged, completely lacking its usual breezy, sarcastic filter.

Seonghyeon shook his head, his fingers trembling against the pavement. “No. I... I don't think so.”

“Are you sure? Did you hit your head when you fell?”

“I’m fine! I’m fine.”

Despite the answer, Spider-Man immediately crouched down on one knee, his white lenses scanning over Seonghyeon’s arms, shoulders, and legs with meticulous, almost frantic intensity, checking for fractures or blood.

Seonghyeon stared at the mask.

At this distance, he could see the intricate weave of the fabric. But more than that, he could see the sheer, unadulterated terror radiating from the hero's posture. This wasn't the distant, professional concern of a city guardian checking on a civilian. This was something deep, visceral, and terrifyingly personal.

“Why do you care so much?” Seonghyeon asked quietly, the words slipping out before he could filter them.

Spider-Man’s entire body went rigid. The lenses on his mask expanded slightly.

Seonghyeon pushed himself all the way up into a standing position, stepping closer to the hero. “You keep appearing. Every single time something happens to me—every single time I’m about to get hit, or fall, or get hurt—you’re just suddenly there.”

Spider-Man stood up slowly, stepping back to maintain distance. “I... I just happen to patrol this district heavily. It’s a dense area.”

“Every single time?” Seonghyeon pressed, his voice rising over the sound of distant police sirens beginning to wail in the city.

“...Apparently,” Spider-Man muttered, looking off to the side.

Seonghyeon let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “That’s mathematically impossible.”

“You’d be surprised how strange city geometry works.”

“Then give me the real reason. Why me?”

Spider-Man locked his white lenses onto Seonghyeon’s eyes. For one horrifying, magnificent second, Seonghyeon genuinely believed the hero was going to reach up, grab the fabric of his mask, and pull it off.

Instead, Spider-Man lowered his head slightly, his voice dropping to a gentle, quiet rumble.

“Maybe you’re just lucky.”

Seonghyeon gestured broadly toward the smoking wreck of the SUV behind them, the shattered metal, and his coffee-stained jacket. “A car literally almost crushed me into the pavement!”

“And you survived,” Spider-Man pointed out softly.

“I got a cup of scalding coffee thrown at my back ten minutes ago!”

“And you survived that, too.”

“My laptop battery permanently died!”

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head slightly. “Okay, fair point. That one is a legitimate tragedy.”

A real, genuine, unscripted laugh burst out of Seonghyeon’s chest—a warm, clear sound that cut clean through the smoke and noise of the wrecked street.

Ahn Keonho froze in place.

His heart seized in his chest. He knew that exact laugh. He had spent years listening to it. He remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cramped bedroom until three in the morning, both of them laughing so violently at stupid internet videos that they could barely draw air into their lungs. He remembered how Seonghyeon always instinctively covered his mouth with his left hand when a laugh caught him off guard.

He remembered how Seonghyeon had leaned against his shoulder on a rooftop three years ago and whispered, I don't think I laugh like this around anyone else.

Keonho felt a cold, sharp pain slice directly through his center. He forced himself to look away, staring down at his own gloved hands.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here in this moment. It was dangerous. It was selfish.

Seonghyeon was still smiling, his eyes bright as he wiped a speck of dust from his forehead. “Thank you, really. For saving my life, again.”

Keonho swallowed the lump of glass in his throat, offering a stiff, brief nod. “You’re welcome, Seonghyeon. Just... watch where you’re going.”

He turned, crouching to launch himself toward the nearest building line.

“Wait!” Seonghyeon called out stepping forward.

Keonho stopped, his boots gripping the edge of the curb. He didn't turn around. “Yeah?”

Seonghyeon hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight nervously. “Can I... can I ask you something? Just one thing?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your real name?”

The air left Keonho’s lungs entirely.

Of course. He had forgotten for a split second. Seonghyeon didn't know. Seonghyeon couldn't know. The spell had stripped Ahn Keonho out of the memories of every human being on the surface of the earth.

Keonho slowly turned his head back, looking over his shoulder. “Spider-Man,” he said quietly.

Seonghyeon gave a small, wry smile. “I know that part.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I don't know,” Seonghyeon admitted, looking down at his own shoes, sounding almost embarrassed. “Honestly? I really don't know.”

Keonho let out a soft, quiet laugh that was entirely devoid of joy. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

He raised his wrist, aiming his web-shooter at the high stone ledge of the library building above. Before he could pull the trigger, Seonghyeon called out across the street one last time:

“Spider-Man!”

Keonho looked back.

Seonghyeon was standing amidst the smoke and ruined concrete, offering a small, warm, inexplicably familiar wave. “See you around.”

Keonho stared at him for two long beats, imprinting the image into his memory. “Yeah,” Keonho whispered, his voice cracking slightly against the inside of his mask. “...See you around.”

THWIP.

He launched into the sky, pulling himself up into the vast blue expanse above Seoul, disappearing before the first police cruisers pulled onto the block.

Seonghyeon stood on the pavement, his eyes fixed on the empty sky where the red-and-blue figure had vanished.

Juhoon finally stumbled over, breathing heavily, dusting off his knees. He looked at the smoking SUV, then at the sky, and finally at Seonghyeon. “Do you... do you know that guy?” Juhoon asked, his voice still shaking from the adrenaline shock.

Seonghyeon slowly shook his head. “No.”

Juhoon narrowed his eyes, watching the empty skyline. “Well, he sure looks like he knows you.”

Seonghyeon felt a strange, cold shiver run down his spine. “That’s what I keep thinking.”

Juhoon glanced at him sideway, a subtle shift in his expression. “You like him.”

Seonghyeon blinked, turning to face his friend. “What?”

“Spider-Man. You like him.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Seonghyeon muttered, pulling his coffee-stained jacket tighter around himself. “I’ve literally spoken to the guy six times.”

“Exactly,” Juhoon said knowingly. “Six times in three weeks. That’s a higher frequency than you talk to your own family.”

Seonghyeon shoved Juhoon’s shoulder playfully. “Shut up and let’s go talk to the officers before we miss the entire seminar.”

Juhoon chuckled, turning to walk toward the gathering crowd of campus security guards.

Seonghyeon took two steps forward, but then stopped again. He turned around one last time, looking back up at the high ledges of the university library roof

He didn't know why his mind was racing. He didn't know Spider-Man. He didn't know the person breathing behind that red fabric mask. He didn't know why his chest bloomed with an intense, overwhelming warmth every single time he heard that altered voice. He didn't know why the hero’s eyes held a look of profound, agonizing recognition whenever they locked onto his own.

He didn't know why an old, damaged photograph sat on his desk at home with a person completely erased from the right side.

And he didn't know why, when Spider-Man’s gloved hand had wrapped around his wrist to pull him away from death—just for a fraction of a second—it had felt like the safest place in the entire world.

It had felt like coming home.

High above the avenue, perched on the highest spire of the clock tower overlooking Mapo-gu, Ahn Keonho sat alone in the biting wind, watching Seonghyeon walk safely through the university gates.

Keonho knew exactly why. That was his ultimate, enduring tragedy. He remembered every second, every smile, every laugh, and every promise.

He knew everything. Seonghyeon knew nothing.

For now.

🕸️

Keonho had long since learned that loneliness was not a single, uniform weight. It came in two distinct, suffocating varieties.

There was the ordinary kind. The mundane, quiet ache of eating a convenience store bento box alone in a dark kitchen, walking home through crowds of anonymous commuters, or waking up on a Sunday morning in a cramped apartment where nobody would notice if you simply vanished into thin air. That kind was manageable. It was a dull background noise, like the low hum of a refrigerator or the distant rush of traffic outside a cracked window. He’d built up a thick skin against it over the years.

Then there was the second kind.

The second kind struck when someone you had bled for, someone whose voice was woven into every single memory of your youth, stood three inches away from you, looked directly into your eyes, and saw a absolute stranger.

That one didn't just ache; it carved small pieces out of your ribs every single day.

Keonho was getting terrifyingly good at pretending it didn’t hurt.

He swung in long, sweeping arcs between the steel and glass towers of Mapo-gu, the cool night air whistling sharply through the fabric of his mask. Below him, Seoul moved through the gears of another bustling weekday evening. Neon signage blazed in vibrant hues of magenta and teal, reflecting off the slick wet asphalt of the avenues.

He had spent the last two hours doing precisely what Spider-Man was supposed to do. He had interrupted a petty wallet snatching outside an subway station exit, helped a visibly stressed taxi driver change a flat tire on an incline, and retrieved an adventurous golden retriever from the ledge of a low residential roof.

Simple work, nothing headline worthy. Nothing that would end up on the nightly news broadcast.

That was fine by him. He didn’t crave the applause or the public spotlight. He simply needed the momentum. He needed the physical exertion to keep his mind occupied, because lately, the moment he stopped moving—the second his boots touched a quiet ledge and his heart rate settled—his thoughts instantly drifted straight toward Eom Seonghyeon.

And he really, desperately needed to stop doing that.

Keonho landed with a soft, practiced thud on the gravel roof of a twelve-story commercial building. He unclipped his mask, pulling the tight red fabric up over his damp hair, and took a deep, greedy breath of the night air. He sat down on the edge of the parapet wall, his legs dangling over the drop.

Inside his suit pocket, his phone vibrated against his thigh.

He pulled it out. The screen illuminated his tired face.

Reminder: Buy groceries. Refrigerator is empty.

Keonho stared at the digital notification for a long moment, then let out a dry, breathy laugh that dissolved into the wind.

He’d forgotten again. Three days in a row.

“Great job, Spider-Man,” he muttered to the sky, resting his elbows on his knees. “Master of urban tactical defense, defeated by basic adult meal planning.”

He pushed himself up off the gravel, intending to swing toward a nearby twenty-four-hour market. But he had barely taken two steps toward the ledge when a violent, sudden static prickled at the base of his skull.

His spider-sense flared.

Keonho let out a long, dramatic groan toward the clouds. “Of course. Naturally.” He yanked the mask back down, adjusting the eye lenses as he stepped off the edge into the dark gap between buildings.

Eom Seonghyeon was having what he considered a completely textbook, ordinary evening. Which, given his personal track record, meant that three separate trivial disasters had already systematically derailed his plans.

First, the primary rib of his collapsible umbrella had snapped during a sudden, ten-minute drizzle, forcing him to duck under shop awnings like a fugitive. Then, the green bus he’d been walking toward pulled away from the curb thirty seconds ahead of its scheduled timetable, splashing muddy street water onto his ankles. To top it off, his smartphone screen was currently flashing a frantic, desperate red battery icon at two percent.

And now, he stood under the buzzing fluorescent lights outside a twenty-four-hour convenience store near the university gate, staring in disbelief at a brightly lit beverage vending machine.

His last five-hundred-won coin had vanished into the coin slot with a hollow clunk, but the mechanical spiral inside hadn't turned. His iced coffee remained firmly locked behind the glass.

Seonghyeon pressed the return lever. Nothing happened. He pressed it three times in rapid succession. Still nothing.

He let out a sharp sigh and gave the side of the metal machine a measured, frustrated kick with his sneaker.

Clack. The machine vibrated, but his coffee didn't budge.

“Come on,” Seonghyeon muttered under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold display glass. “I’ve had a terrible day. Just give me the caffeine. Please.” He gave the lower panel another solid kick.

“You know, structural engineering studies suggest that assault-and-battery rarely fixes a jammed mechanical coil.”

Seonghyeon jumped, spinning around so fast his backpack nearly whipped him off balance. Spider-Man was standing three feet away on the wet sidewalk, his hands resting casually on his hips, his white eye lenses wide and innocent.

Seonghyeon stared at him, his mouth slightly open. “...Why are you standing outside a convenience store?”

Spider-Man offered a casual, one-handed shrug. “I’m on patrol.”

“Patrolling a vending machine?”

“Crime takes many forms, Seonghyeon. Mechanical extortion of innocent college students is a gateway offense.”

“There’s no crime happening here,” Seonghyeon said, gesturing vaguely at the empty, brightly lit storefront. “Just terrible maintenance.”

Spider-Man stepped closer, tilting his head as he looked at the glowing display glass. “Looks like grand larceny to me. What did it steal from you?”

Seonghyeon pointed an accusatory finger at the metallic slot. “My last five-hundred-won coin. And my dignity.”

Spider-Man let out a low chuckle, dropping into a low crouch in front of the machine’s coin-return tray. He didn't use superhuman force; he simply raised two fingers and delivered a sharp, perfectly angled double-tap to the lower panel frame near the internal release mechanism.

CLINK-CLUNK.

The internal spiral turned once, releasing the aluminum coffee can, which rolled cleanly into the delivery door alongside the five-hundred-won coin. Seonghyeon blinked, utterly bewildered. He looked down at the coffee, then up at the red-and-blue suit. “How... how did you do that?”

Spider-Man stood up, dusting off his gloved palms with an air of theatrical grandeur. “Trade secret. Mostly involves knowing where the cheap plastic sensors are located.”

Seonghyeon reached down, scooping up his coin and the cold aluminum can. “You could’ve used that magical touch yesterday when my laptop died.”

“Yesterday I was busy preventing you from becoming an hood ornament on a runaway SUV,” Spider-Man pointed out, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “Priorities, Seonghyeon.”

“Fair point,” Seonghyeon conceded, a small smile cracking through his exhaustion. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Literally. Don't tell the city council I’m acting as a free vending technician.” Spider-Man turned on his heel, flexing his knees as if preparing to launch himself up toward the rain gutter above.

“Wait!”

Spider-Man paused, his boots planted on the concrete. He looked back over his shoulder.

Seonghyeon hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of how absurd he was being. He cleared his throat, holding up the five-hundred-won coin. “Are you... busy right now? Like, emergency-busy?”

Spider-Man glanced up at the calm, empty street, then back at Seonghyeon. “No. The city is suspiciously quiet tonight.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Seonghyeon offered, nodding toward the store’s automatic sliding doors. “I have enough change for another one. As a proper thank-you.”

A dense, heavy silence fell between them. The buzzing of the overhead fluorescent tube seemed to grow louder.

Seonghyeon’s cheeks immediately flushed hot. What are you doing? he yelled at himself internally. You’re offering to buy a corporate canned drink for a masked vigilante who can jump over buildings.

“Forget it,” Seonghyeon blurted out hastily, waving a hand in dismissive panic. “That was weird. You don't have to stay—”

“No,” Spider-Man interrupted, his voice dropping its sarcastic edge, becoming surprisingly soft. He looked directly at Seonghyeon, the white eye lenses narrowing slightly. “I mean... yes. I’d like that.”

Seonghyeon let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a genuine smile breaking across his face. “Okay. Great.”

They ended up sitting side-by-side on the flat gravel roof directly above the convenience store, their legs dangling over the edge toward the street below.

Seonghyeon was holding his cracked-open can of sweet milk coffee, taking slow sips as the cool night breeze rustled his hair. Beside him, Spider-Man sat with his knees pulled up toward his chest. He hadn't pulled up his mask, so his canned drink sat unopened on the gravel between his boots.

“You’re not going to drink yours?” Seonghyeon asked, pointing at the unopened red can.

“I do drink coffee,” Spider-Man clarified smoothly. “Just... usually not in public where people can analyze my jawline.”

“You don't have anything open,” Seonghyeon noted. “You’re just staring at the wall.”

“I wasn’t originally planning on lingering on a roof for twenty minutes.”

“But you’re still here.”

“Apparently,” Spider-Man said, turning his masked head to look at him. “My tactical schedule is remarkably flexible tonight.”

Seonghyeon chuckled quietly, taking another sip.

Below them, the city stretch out in a sea of glowing windows and moving headlights. The rhythmic hum of Seoul at midnight was surprisingly soothing from this height—distanced just enough from the noise to make it feel like a living, breathing tapestry.

Seonghyeon stared down at his shoes dangling above the street. “Can I ask you something personal?”

Spider-Man let out a long, dramatic sigh that rustled the fabric over his mouth. “Seonghyeon, you’ve asked me roughly forty questions since we met. What’s one more to add to the tally?”

“That’s not a firm yes.”

“Go ahead,” Spider-Man said softly. “Shoot.”

Seonghyeon hesitated, tapping his thumb against the aluminum can. “Do you ever get exhausted? Like... bone-deep tired of doing all of this?”

“All the time,” the hero answered without a single second of hesitation. “Every single morning when my alarm goes off, every bone in my torso feels like it’s been through a cement mixer.”

“Then why keep doing it?” Seonghyeon asked, turning his head to study the profile of the mask. “You don't get paid. You get thrown through walls. People yell at you when traffic gets backed up.”

Spider-Man went quiet. The breezy, quick-witted defense mechanisms seemed to melt away, leaving behind a stillness that felt heavy and profound. Seonghyeon immediately felt a pang of guilt. “You don't have to answer that. I’m crossing lines—”

“No,” Spider-Man cut in gently. He shifted his weight, resting his gloved forearms across his knees, looking out over the flickering lights of the Mapo District. “I want to answer.”

He paused, as if carefully picking through a crowded library of words to find the right ones. “I think... if you have the ability to stop someone’s world from falling apart, you have a responsibility to do it,” Spider-Man said quietly. “When you have the power to fix something—a broken railing, a speeding car, a bad day—and you choose to look the other way, then when bad things happen... they happen because of you.”

Seonghyeon listened intently, the cold coffee forgotten in his hand. “Even if nobody ever thanks you for it? Even if nobody knows your face?”

“Especially then,” Spider-Man replied, a faint, sad humor lacing his words. “The recognition isn't the point. Knowing that someone gets to go home to the people they love... that’s the whole job.”

Something in the tone of the hero's voice made Seonghyeon’s chest tighten with an inexplicable sadness. “That sounds really lonely,” Seonghyeon whispered.

Spider-Man tilted his head. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you sound like someone who’s been carrying that entire philosophy alone for a very long time.”

Spider-Man let out a soft, breathy sound that might have been a smile under the cloth. “Maybe I have.”

Seonghyeon stared at the red suit, taking a small, quiet leap into the dark. “Do you have anyone? Off the clock, I mean.”

The question hung in the night air like a heavy drop of rain.

“Anyone?” Spider-Man repeated softly.

“Friends. A partner. Family. Someone who waits up for you with dinner when you’ve had a bad night.”

Keonho’s gloved fingers instinctively clenched into tight fists against his knees. The fabric stretched taut over his knuckles. He wanted to lie. He wanted to construct a breezy, fictional narrative about a bustling home, a loving family, and a cat waiting on a sofa. He wanted to protect his own pathetic dignity.

But sitting next to Seonghyeon under the wide Seoul sky, hearing that gentle, familiar voice ask about his life... the lie choked in his throat.

“No,” Keonho said, the single word slipping past his lips before his brain could construct a barrier.

Seonghyeon’s eyebrows knitted together in deep concern. “Nobody?”

“Not anymore,” Keonho added quietly, staring straight ahead at the neon horizon so he wouldn't have to see Seonghyeon’s reaction. “I used to. A long time ago. But... circumstances changed.”

Seonghyeon watched him closely. He didn't push for details. He didn't ask about accidents, or breakups, or tragedy. “I’m sorry,” Seonghyeon said softly. “I shouldn't have dug into your personal life.”

“It’s fine,” Keonho replied, forcing a lightness back into his tone that didn't reach his eyes. “Really.”

A long, quiet pause settled between them—not awkward or tense, but deep and contemplative, filled only with the distant murmur of the city. Then Seonghyeon looked down at his shoes and murmured, “That must be unbearable sometimes.”

Keonho turned his head, his white eye lenses focusing sharply on Seonghyeon’s side profile. “You don't even know who I am under this fabric, Seonghyeon. How can you judge that?”

“I don't need to see your face to see it,” Seonghyeon replied simply, turning to meet the hero's unblinking gaze. “I know what lonely looks like. I see it in the mirror when I’m staring at old photos I can't explain.”

Keonho’s breath hitched violently behind his mask.

Seonghyeon didn't elaborate on the comment about the photos. He simply took another quiet sip of his coffee, his expression peaceful and unreadable.

For the first time in countless agonizing months, a deep, soothing warmth bloomed inside Keonho’s chest. It wasn't because the cosmic spell had broken. It wasn't because Seonghyeon had suddenly remembered the high school sports days, or the late-night study sessions, or the quiet promises made on rain-slicked bridges.

It was because Seonghyeon, in his pure, unvarnished empathy, was looking directly at him in this exact moment and seeing him. Not the legendary superhero who saved Seoul. Not a ghost from an erased timeline. Just a tired, lonely guy sitting on a roof who needed a quiet friend.

He was seeing Keonho.

🕸️

They met again two days later on the fire escape behind the university humanities hall.

Then again three days after that, sitting on the concrete retaining wall near the river park as the sunset turned the water into liquid copper.

Gradually, without any formal agreement or grand declaration, it became a regular, domestic pattern. Seonghyeon would finish his late-afternoon lectures, sling his heavy canvas backpack over his shoulder, and step out into the courtyard. More often than not, if he looked up toward the narrow decorative ledges of the third-floor library overhang, he would spot a distinctive red-and-blue figure sitting cross-legged, lazily swinging his boots over the edge.

Seonghyeon would raise his hand in a simple, casual wave. Spider-Man would offer a brief two-finger salute in return.

Sometimes they talked for an hour about completely mundane nonsense—the terrible quality of the campus cafeteria food, the absurd difficulty of Seonghyeon’s political science exams, or Spider-Man’s opinions on the best late-night street food stalls in the eastern districts.

Sometimes they barely spoke at all, simply sitting side-by-side on quiet rooftops while Seonghyeon read his textbooks and Spider-Man kept watch over the surrounding streets.

Eventually, Seonghyeon stopped buying single cans from the vending machines. Whenever he headed toward their usual spots, he instinctively bought two iced coffees—one sweet milk blend, one black—without even thinking about it.

He never questioned why he was buying drinks for a superhero who repeatedly claimed he didn't need fluid intake during shifts.

And Keonho never had the heart to tell him to stop.

On a warm Thursday afternoon, Seonghyeon pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the roof of the science building, carrying two chilled paper cups in a cardboard carrier. Spider-Man was already perched on top of a nearby air-handler unit, staring down at his own wrist-mounted web-shooters.

“You’re seven minutes late,” Spider-Man announced without looking up, his voice echoing lightly behind his mask. Seonghyeon stopped in his tracks, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Were you actively keeping a timer for my arrival?”

“No,” Spider-Man replied sharply, snapping his head up. “Absolutely not. I was merely observing the passage of temporal reality.”

“You were totally waiting for me,” Seonghyeon said, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he walked over and handed up one of the cups. Spider-Man accepted the drink, carefully setting it down on the rusted metal casing of the unit. “I was patrolling the air space above the science quad. It’s a high-priority tactical zone.”

“Right. High priority for free coffee.”

“I am a public servant, Seonghyeon. I require nourishment.”

“You literally told me three days ago that you survive on raw adrenaline and pure spite.”

“Circumstances evolve,” Spider-Man insisted grandly, leaning back against the metal housing. “Besides, you keep bringing them. It would be remarkably rude of me to refuse your charity. I was raised properly.”

Seonghyeon let out a sharp laugh, sitting down on the concrete ledge near the hero's boots. “Really? You were raised properly? You?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Spider-Man asked, wounded dignity evident in his posture. “I possess exceptional modern manners.”

“You literally make terrible, sarcastic jokes while people are dangling off broken building structures!”

“That is a tactical psychological de-escalation technique!” Spider-Man argued, pointing a gloved finger down at him. “It distracts the victim from the terrifying reality of vertical gravity. It’s science!”

Seonghyeon shook his head, taking a slow sip of his own drink, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “You really are an exceptionally weird guy under that suit.”

“So I’ve been told by several high-ranking city officials and at least three angry taxi drivers,” Keonho replied easily.

They sat together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the shadows of the campus trees lengthen across the grassy quad below. Seonghyeon stared down at his cup, tapping his fingers against the cardboard sleeve. “Hey... can I ask you for a favor?”

“Depends. Does it involve moving heavy furniture? Because my rates for residential moving are astronomical.”

“No,” Seonghyeon laughed softly. He looked up at the white eye-lenses of the mask. “Can I call you something else? Something other than 'Spider-Man'?”

Keonho’s posture stiffened slightly. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Brand consistency,” Keonho answered rapidly, crossing his arms. “It’s bad for marketing. The official merch team in New York would have a fit.”

“That’s the most ridiculous excuse I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s a vital corporate mandate!”

Seonghyeon tapped his chin thoughtfully, completely ignoring the protest. “Okay. I’ve reached a decision.”

A faint, uneasy feeling fluttered in Keonho’s stomach. “A decision about what?”

Seonghyeon smiled bright and innocent. “I’m calling you 'Pidey.”

Keonho almost choked on his own breath. “Absolutely not.”

“Hey, 'Pidey.”

“No. Stop that immediately.”

“What’s wrong, 'Pidey?”

“It sounds like a terrible cartoon sidekick from the seventies! Call me Spider-Man or call me nothing!”

“Okay, whatever you say, 'Pidey,” Seonghyeon teased, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

Keonho let out a loud, dramatic groan, throwing his head back against the air-handler unit. But despite his best efforts to maintain his solemn, heroic composure, a deep, helpless laugh burst out of his chest.

It was absurd. It was completely childish.

And for three glorious, shining minutes on that sunlit roof, Ahn Keonho completely forgot about the crushing weight of his reality. He forgot about the cosmic spell that had erased his existence. He forgot about the solitary nights in his empty apartment. He forgot that the boy sitting three feet away from him didn't remember their high school graduation, or their shared meals, or their ancient jokes.

For three minutes, the painful divide between the past and the present vanished entirely. It was just the two of them, sharing a quiet laugh on a warm afternoon.

Just like they used to.

Except deep down, in the cold corners of his heart, Keonho knew the dark truth.

Before the spell, Seonghyeon knew his name, his face, his fears, and his heart. Now, Seonghyeon was slowly falling into comfortable camaraderie with a nameless mask.

🕸️

Juhoon noticed the shift immediately.

He was sitting across from Seonghyeon at a corner table in the busy student union cafeteria, casually picking through a bowl of bibimbap while Seonghyeon scrolled through his phone.

Seonghyeon’s phone vibrated with a brief notification chime.

He glanced down at the screen. A tiny, subtle smile immediately tugged at the corners of his lips—a soft, light expression that completely transformed his tired face.

Juhoon paused mid-bite, raising one dark eyebrow in sharp suspicion. “Who’s texting you?”

“Nobody,” Seonghyeon replied instantly, flipping his phone face-down onto the wooden table.

“That is the most suspicious, guilty smile I have seen on your face since middle school,” Juhoon noted, pointing his chopsticks across the table.

“I didn't smile,” Seonghyeon denied smoothly, taking a bite of his rice.

“You absolutely did. You had that weird, soft little look you get when you’re watching videos of golden retriever puppies.” Juhoon leaned forward over his tray, his eyes narrowing. “Is it Spider-Man?”

Seonghyeon choked slightly on his food, his hand wildly reaching for his water cup. “Can you please refrain from yelling that out in a crowded cafeteria?!”

“I knew it!” Juhoon declared, slamming his hand onto the table in triumph. “I freaking knew it!”

“You don't know anything!” Seonghyeon hissed, leaning across the table and glaring. “He just sent a quick message verifying that the west campus bridge area is clear of traffic accidents!”

“Oh, right, because Spider-Man regularly acts as a personal, private traffic-reporting service for random college students,” Juhoon said with heavy, dripping sarcasm. “Seonghyeon, you literally glow every single time his name comes up in conversation.”

“I do not 'glow,'” Seonghyeon muttered, his cheeks warming slightly as he looked down at his food tray.

He hated how observant Juhoon could be when it came to his emotional state. Because deep down, Seonghyeon had been forced to admit to himself over the past two weeks that he was thinking about the masked hero far more than was entirely reasonable.

It wasn't about the grand superhero persona. It wasn't about the dramatic rescues, the superhuman strength, or the suit.

It was the quiet moments.

He liked the way Spider-Man actually listened when Seonghyeon vented about his academic stress. He liked how the hero somehow managed to remember tiny, throwaway details Seonghyeon had mentioned weeks ago—like his hatred for artificial grape flavoring or his anxiety regarding public speaking. He liked the subtle, gentle way Spider-Man seemed to anticipate his mood drops, offering sharp, sarcastic humor exactly when Seonghyeon needed a distraction.

And occasionally... occasionally, Seonghyeon would catch the hero staring at him from behind those unblinking white eye lenses with an intensity that made his breath catch.

It was a look laced with a profound, agonizing tenderness—like someone staring at a long-lost treasure they were forbidden from touching.

“Hey, Juhoon,” Seonghyeon said softly, his playful defense dropping away entirely.

Juhoon paused, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Yeah?”

“Do you ever look at someone... and just instinctively know they’re carrying a massive amount of hidden pain?” Seonghyeon asked, his fingers tracing the rim of his paper cup. “Do you think Spider-Man is lonely?”

Juhoon lowered his chopsticks slowly, studying his best friend’s serious expression. “Spider-Man? Honestly? Probably. The guy wears a mask full-time and risks his life every night. That’s not exactly a lifestyle conducive to maintaining a healthy social circle.”

Seonghyeon nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the tabletop. “I asked him about it a few days ago. On the convenience store roof.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me he doesn't have anyone anymore,” Seonghyeon whispered. “No family. No close friends. Nobody waiting for him at home.”

Juhoon remained quiet for a moment, processing the weight of the statement. Seonghyeon let out a soft, resolved breath. “I think he needs a friend, Juhoon. A real one. Someone who doesn't just treat him like an urban legend or a public utility.”

Juhoon let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Seonghyeon... you are a deeply good person, but you are also profoundly insane.”

“Why?”

“Because he is Spider-Man! He fights supervillains and stops runaway trains! You can't just casually apply to be the emotional support buddy for a masked vigilante!”

“Why not?” Seonghyeon argued, sitting up straight. “He’s a human being under that suit! He bleeds, he gets tired, and he drinks cheap canned coffee!”

Juhoon stared at him for three long seconds, entirely defeated, before shaking his head with a tired grin. “You are truly unbelievable, Seonghyeon.”

Seonghyeon offered a small, resolute smile. “I know.”

🕸️

Late that night, Ahn Keonho sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of his tiny apartment bedroom. The room was completely dark save for the pale blue moonlight filtering through the windowpane. Resting on the floor between his knees was the wooden picture frame he had brought over from his old life.

He turned the frame over in his hands, staring at the glossy print of his seventeen-year-old self standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Seonghyeon outside the convenience store.

Seonghyeon’s messy hair, his lopsided smile, his crooked collar—every single detail was frozen in time.

Keonho slowly set the frame down on the floor.

BZ-ZZT.

His smartphone, resting on the mattress behind him, lit up with a soft chime.

Keonho turned around and picked it up. For one terrifying, hopeful second, his heart slammed against his ribs.

It was a text from Seonghyeon.

Not a text sent through an official superhero tip line, and not a text from the past. A direct, personal message sent to the burner number Keonho had given him two days ago under the pretense of "emergency contact coordination."

hyeonie: are you free tomorrow afternoon around four?

Keonho stared at the glowing letters on the screen, his thumb hovering over the glass keyboard. He typed out a quick response, deleted it, retyped it, and finally hit send.

spidey: depends. are you planning on falling off another municipal structure or standing near runaway vehicles?

The response was almost instantaneous.

hyeonie: rude.

A second later, another message flashed:

hyeonie: so does that mean you're free?

Keonho couldn't stop the small, genuine smile from spreading across his face in the dark room.

spidey: yeah i’m free.

hyeonie: good. meet me on the library roof? i’ll bring the coffee

Keonho stared down at the screen for a very long time, his chest aching with a deep, complex mixture of overwhelming joy and profound terror.

Coffee on a roof.

It was such an ordinary, mundane, everyday request. Something he had done with Seonghyeon hundreds of times during their high school years.

And yet, it felt entirely different now.

Because this time, Seonghyeon hadn't asked him out of habit. He hadn't asked because they had years of shared history, or because they were childhood best friends, or because he felt obligated to keep him company. Seonghyeon had asked because he simply enjoyed his presence. He had reached out to the lonely guy behind the mask and chosen to spend his afternoon with him.

Keonho slowly typed out his final reply:

spidey: sure. see you at four.

He locked the phone, setting it gently beside the wooden picture frame on the floor.

Keonho leaned his head back against the edge of his mattress, staring up at the shadows dancing across his ceiling, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he whispered softly to the empty, quiet apartment.

The picture frame on the floor didn't answer. The young, smiling boy in the photograph couldn't offer advice or comfort but Keonho already knew the terrifying truth in his own heart.

He was falling completely, hopelessly in love with Eom Seonghyeon all over again.

And this time... Seonghyeon didn't even know his real name.

🕸️

The first thing Seonghyeon noticed about Spider-Man without his mask was his hair.

It was impossibly, aggressively messy.

Not the deliberate, carefully styled bedhead that the guy in his political science lecture spent twenty minutes setting with pomade. Not fashionably tousled. Just dark, thick strands sticking out at erratic, gravity-defying angles, damp with sweat around the temples and completely unbothered by basic grooming logic.

Seonghyeon stared at him across the tiny, round wooden table, his iced coffee held halfway to his mouth.

Keonho stared back, his dark eyes wide, motionless, and painfully defensive.

They were tucked into a quiet, shadowed corner of a small, second-floor café situated in an alleyway just three blocks from the university’s side gate. The air smelled of freshly ground espresso beans, warm buttered pastries, and the faint, bitter steam of roasting chicory. Down on the street below, the afternoon rush was beginning to swell, but up here, under the soft glow of Edison bulbs and hanging fern baskets, time felt strangely suspended.

For once, there was no emergency. No falling masonry, no screaming bystanders, no runaway delivery scooters, no broken iron railings snapping under load.

Just two glass mugs of coffee.

It should have felt completely normal. It should have been a casual, straightforward step in whatever weird, unclassifiable friendship they were building.

Instead, Keonho was so intensely aware of the space between them that his entire body felt brittle, like spun glass. This was the first time Seonghyeon was looking at his actual face. Not the first time he had seen it—Keonho had memorized every fraction of a millimeter of Seonghyeon’s features over five long years of high school—but the first time Seonghyeon remembered seeing it.

The distinction was an abyss.

“You’re really quiet,” Seonghyeon observed softly, setting his glass back down on the paper coaster with a small clink.

Keonho blinked, his eyes dropping instantly to the swirling ice cubes in his own black coffee. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Extremely.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize every time there’s three seconds of silence.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Seonghyeon’s mouth twitched into a sudden, genuine smile. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Apologizing for apologizing.”

Keonho let out a dry, breathy laugh that barely cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

Seonghyeon just sat there, leaning his chin into his palm, staring at him with bright, curious eyes. Keonho realized the absurd loop he’d just walked into and pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening. “Right. My bad.”

“You’re ridiculously terrible at this,” Seonghyeon said smoothly, shaking his head.

“At what? Social interaction? I’ll have you know I converse with a wide variety of citizens on a daily basis.”

“At talking like a normal person,” Seonghyeon corrected, a fond, teasing edge sharpening his tone. “When you had the red mask on, I couldn’t get you to shut up. You had a five-minute monologue about vending machine mechanics and corporate brand consistency. Now? You’re sitting there like you’re waiting for a judge to read a verdict.”

Keonho’s brief smile vanished for a fraction of a second, collapsing under the sheer weight of the truth.

Seonghyeon didn’t notice the collapse. Or maybe he did—maybe he was just too polite to call out how deeply fractured Keonho looked under the café’s warm lighting. He tilted his head, his dark eyes searching Keonho’s high cheekbones, the faint line of a scar near his left eyebrow, the tension in his broad shoulders.

“Do I make you nervous?” Seonghyeon asked quietly.

Keonho inhaled sharply, nearly choking on his own breath. “No. Of course not.”

“You look nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your knuckles are literally white from gripping that table edge.”

Keonho immediately loosened his hands, resting his palms flat on his knees under the wooden table where Seonghyeon couldn't see them. He looked away, focusing his gaze on the raindrops beginning to streak the windowpane overlooking the alley.

He was beginning to realize, with terrible clarity, just how dangerous this was.

Being Spider-Man around Seonghyeon was manageable. The red-and-blue suit was an armor in more ways than one; it established a clear, unyielding perimeter. As long as he was the masked vigilante, Seonghyeon didn't expect him to have a backstory that intersected with his own. There was boundaries. There was safety in distance.

But sitting here unmasked, stripped of his heroic persona, wearing a faded gray hoodie with frayed cuffs—he was entirely exposed.

Seonghyeon was looking directly at his face.

The same face Seonghyeon had once pressed his forehead against on a freezing December night behind the gymnasium. The same face Seonghyeon had held between two warm, ink-stained hands while laughing until he cried. The same face belonging to the boy Seonghyeon had once called his home, his anchor, his favorite person in the world.

And now, Seonghyeon was looking at it as if it were a brand-new puzzle piece he had just picked out of a box.

“Have we met somewhere before?” Seonghyeon asked suddenly.

Keonho’s fingers twitched under the table. His pulse spiked, a sharp, cold rhythm echoing in his ears. There it was. The single, lethal question he had been running from for months.

He slowly turned his head back, forcing his expression to remain entirely blank, passive, unreadable. “What makes you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Seonghyeon frowned, his dark brows knitting together in genuine frustration. He tapped his thumb against his glass. “Sometimes... you just feel really familiar. Like a song I used to hear all the time when I was little, but I can't remember the lyrics or the title.”

Keonho said nothing. He didn't dare breathe, afraid that the slightest exhalation would shatter the fragile composure he was clinging to.

“You know things about me,” Seonghyeon continued, his voice dropping an octave as he analyzed the space between them. “Small things. The way I take my coffee. The fact that I hate loud crowds. The way I tilt my head when I’m trying to remember something.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time watching out for you,” Keonho offered quietly, his voice low and steady. “As Spider-Man.”

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon murmured, looking at him thoughtfully. “As Spider-Man. That makes sense.”

He paused, his eyes lingering on Keonho’s mouth, then drifting up to his eyes. “But sometimes...” Seonghyeon trailed off, letting out a heavy, defeated breath. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

Keonho waited, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. “What is it? Tell me.”

Seonghyeon shook his head, looking down at the table. “It’s really stupid.”

“Seonghyeon. Tell me.”

Seonghyeon glanced up, a faint, embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. “You look at me strangely sometimes. Even back on the roof when you had the mask on, but especially now.”

Keonho felt a cold tightness grip his throat. “How do I look at you?”

“Like you’re remembering something,” Seonghyeon said softly, his voice barely carrying over the quiet indie music playing from the café’s speakers. “Like you’re looking at someone who isn't standing here anymore. Like you’re grieving.”

Keonho looked down at his cool coffee glass.

He didn't know how to answer that. He couldn't answer that. Because he was. Every single hour of every single day, he was mourning a boy who was sitting three feet away from him, completely whole, completely alive, and completely gone.

🕸️

Seonghyeon was seventeen when he first realized he was in love with Keonho.

It wasn't a dramatic, cinematic epiphany. There were no fireworks, no sudden claps of thunder, no slow-motion realization under a sudden downpour. It happened on a completely unremarkable Tuesday afternoon in late October, in the back row of an empty, drafty classroom that smelled of chalk dust and floor wax.

Keonho was leaning over a shared history textbook, his head resting on his left arm, his dark hair falling across his eyes while he scribbled notes in the margins with a blue ballpoint pen. A stray beam of autumn sunlight hit the side of his neck, highlighting a small brown mole just below his jawline.

Seonghyeon had simply looked over from his own notebook, intended to ask for an eraser, and found himself completely unable to speak. His chest had suddenly felt too tight for his ribs.

He didn't tell him. Not that day. Not the next month. Not for a long time.

At seventeen, everything felt far too fragile, far too permanent, far too heavy. High school friendships felt like absolute, sacred contracts. Arguments felt like catastrophic structural collapses. A failed mock exam felt like the end of a life trajectory.

And falling in love with your male best friend—the guy who shared your locker, knew your embarrassing childhood stories, and lived three streets down—felt like the precise kind of chaotic lever that could blow up your entire life if you pulled it too hard.

So Seonghyeon kept it locked away in a clean, quiet corner of his chest.

He continued sitting beside Keonho on the narrow wooden benches during lunch periods. He continued casually reaching over to snatch fried chicken pieces off Keonho’s tray without asking. He continued sending nonsensical, three-word text messages at two in the morning when he couldn't sleep. He continued complaining endlessly about their math teacher’s brutal homework loads.

And he continued pretending that his heart didn't violently thrash against his breastbone every single time Keonho threw his head back and laughed at one of his terrible jokes.

Keonho didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he was just remarkably good at letting things slide.

One evening, after the rest of the school had emptied out and the sun was dipping below the low residential roofs of their neighborhood, painting the sky in bruises of deep purple and burnt orange, they sat together on the wide concrete steps outside the main entrance.

Seonghyeon was slowly drinking a small cardboard carton of banana milk through a tiny yellow straw. Keonho sat two steps down, his broad back leaned back against Seonghyeon’s knees, staring out at the empty athletic field. He reached back and nudged Seonghyeon’s ankle with his thumb.

“You’ve been weirdly quiet,” Keonho said.

“I’m just tired. Studying for finals is killing me.”

“You’ve been quiet for twenty-five minutes, Seonghyeon. I’m tracking it.”

“So what if I am?”

“You hate being quiet,” Keonho said, turning his head around to look up at him, a faint, fond smirk playing on his lips. “You get anxious if there isn't noise happening within a five-meter radius of your head.”

Seonghyeon glanced down at him, his thumb pressing into the edge of his milk carton. “Maybe I just don't have anything profound to say right now.”

Keonho chuckled, reaching up to lightly smack Seonghyeon’s knee. “Impossible. You always have something to say.”

“Why? Give me one valid scientific reason.”

“Because you’re Eom Seonghyeon,” Keonho said simply, as if that explained the entire mechanics of the universe. “That’s how you operate.”

Seonghyeon let out a soft laugh, looking away toward the track field so Keonho wouldn't see the warmth surging into his face. “That’s literally the worst reasoning you’ve ever presented in an argument.”

“I think it’s solid logic.”

They sat in silence for a few long minutes. The autumn wind rustled through the dry ginkgo trees lining the school fence, scattering bright yellow leaves across the pavement.

Then Keonho shifted, clearing his throat. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“If you ever... I don't know. If you ever start liking someone,” Keonho began, his voice dropping its usual teasing edge, becoming surprisingly tentative. “Like... really liking someone. Would you tell me?”

Seonghyeon’s entire body froze. The yellow straw almost slipped from his mouth. “...Why are you asking that out of nowhere?”

“Because we’re best friends,” Keonho said, turning around fully on the step to look up at him with clear, honest eyes. “I want to know everything about your life. I don't want you keeping big stuff like that to yourself.”

Seonghyeon’s chest physically throbbed. The secret in his ribs felt heavy, hot, and suffocating. He forced himself to swallow, staring down at his yellow milk carton.

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon lied quietly. “Sure I would.”

Keonho smiled, bright and entirely relieved. “Good. I’d tell you too.”

Seonghyeon glanced at him, his heart doing a painful, awkward leap. “Really?”

“Of course,” Keonho said, leaning back against the concrete wall, looking out at the twilight. “I wouldn't hide something like that from you. You’d be the first person to know.”

Seonghyeon didn't know it yet. He couldn't have known it. But sitting right there on those concrete steps, watching the sun disappear behind the horizon, Keonho was already hiding it too.

🕸️

Seonghyeon was still staring at him across the small café table, his dark eyes searching Keonho’s pale face.

“Are you okay?” Seonghyeon asked softly. “You completely checked out for a second there.”

Keonho blinked rapidly, pulling himself back out of the deep, suffocating currents of his own memory. “Yeah. Sorry. Just... tired. Didn't sleep much last night.”

Seonghyeon nodded slowly, though his expression remained slightly skeptical. A small, knowing smirk eventually returned to his lips. “You know, for someone who claims to be a protector of the people, you’re extraordinarily bad at lying.”

Keonho managed a faint, bittersweet smile. “Neither are you.”

“How would you know if I’m a good liar or not?” Seonghyeon countered, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve known each other for what, three weeks?”

Keonho’s tongue almost betrayed him again. The words ‘because I’ve known you since we were fourteen years old' pressed against the back of his teeth, sharp and desperate.

Instead, he took a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee and said, “I can just tell. You have a terrible poker face. Your left eyelid twitches when you’re trying to make up a story.”

Seonghyeon gasped dramatically, touching his eye. “It does not!”

“It absolutely does.”

“You’re an extraordinarily weird guy, Ahn Keonho.”

“You’re the one who dragged me into this café,” Keonho pointed out, gesturing to the two empty coffee glasses between them.

“Fair point,” Seonghyeon conceded with a soft laugh.

They stayed in the café for another hour, talking easily as the afternoon light gradually faded into the deep, twilight blues of early evening. They talked about university coursework, about the terrible, overpriced street food near the station, about music bands they liked, about nothing at all.

And yet, every trivial detail felt like a minefield and a treasure trove all at once.

By the time they finally stood up to leave, Seonghyeon had learned that Keonho despised anything flavored with mint chocolate, calling it 'toothpaste masquerading as dessert.' Keonho had learned that Seonghyeon still adamantly refused to eat raw tomatoes in any capacity.

It was nothing important. Nothing that mattered in the grand scheme of saving the city. Except Keonho remembered—with brutal, vivid clarity—the exact day Seonghyeon had developed his deep hatred for tomatoes.

He remembered sitting in a tiny, cramped restaurant when they were sixteen, watching Seonghyeon meticulously picking every single cherry tomato out of his lunch salad with his chopsticks and placing them, one by one, onto Keonho’s plate without saying a single word. He remembered complaining loudly about being used as a human waste bin. He remembered eating every single one of them anyway, simply because they came from Seonghyeon’s hands.

It was ridiculous. It was utterly absurd how much a tiny, forgotten memory could ache when resurrected in the light of day.

🕸️

“You can’t keep doing that,” Keonho said, staring down at his plate with an expression of profound theatrical betrayal.

Seonghyeon looked up from his phone, a piece of pickled radish tucked between his chopsticks. “Doing what?”

“Stealing my food without verbal authorization.”

“I didn't steal anything,” Seonghyeon said innocently, chewing slowly. “I performed a tactical relocation.”

Keonho pointed an accusing chopstick at his own plate. “That was my fried chicken. The biggest one.”

“It looked lonely over there on your side.”

“You ate half of my entire order!”

“It looked significantly less lonely once it joined my side,” Seonghyeon argued flawlessly, not a single trace of remorse on his face.

Keonho burst out laughing, shaking his head as he reached for his water glass. “You are truly unbelievable.”

They were sitting in a loud, bustling barbecue joint near the district center, packed into a wooden booth with two of their other high school classmates who were currently screaming at each other over a mobile game at the far end of the table.

Nobody in the noisy, smoke-filled restaurant noticed the way Keonho’s eyes lingered on Seonghyeon’s face just a second too long whenever Seonghyeon looked away. Nobody noticed the subtle, quiet way Seonghyeon’s bright smile faded into something tender and aching every time Keonho turned to talk to someone else.

Nobody knew. Not their friends, not their classmates, not the world.

Later that night, long after the barbecue joint had closed and their classmates had caught their respective buses, they walked back toward their residential neighborhood together.

A sudden late-autumn rainstorm had hit the district, slicking the concrete streets and turning the neon shop lights into long, glowing ribbons of red and yellow on the wet asphalt.

Keonho held a single, wide black umbrella over both of their heads. Because the umbrella wasn't quite broad enough to cover two teenage boys, Seonghyeon walked impossibly close, his left shoulder pressing against Keonho’s right side, their jacket sleeves rubbing together with every step.

“You know,” Seonghyeon said softly, his voice almost buried under the drumming rhythm of the rain hitting the fabric canopy above them. “I think you’re my favorite person.”

Keonho slowed his steps, looking down at him in the dim streetlight. “...Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? I literally complained about chicken for twenty minutes.”

“Because you put up with me,” Seonghyeon said, looking straight ahead at the wet sidewalk, a small, soft smile gracing his features. “You always put up with me. No matter how annoying or needy I get.”

“That’s a terrible reason to pick a favorite person.”

“It’s a great reason.”

Keonho let out a soft laugh, pulling the umbrella slightly more over Seonghyeon’s side, letting his own shoulder get soaked by the rain. “Well... you’re my favorite person too.”

Seonghyeon stopped walking, his breath catching in his chest. He turned his head slowly, his eyes wide. “...What did you say?”

Keonho looked down at him, bewildered. “I said you’re my favorite person too.”

A heavy, roaring gust of wind slammed down the narrow alleyway right at that exact second, rattling the metal street signs and driving a loud, deafening sheet of rain against the vinyl umbrella. The noise drowned out the final two words entirely. Seonghyeon blinked, the moment passing in a flash of grey water and rushing air. “What? I couldn't hear you over the wind!”

Keonho looked at him for a long moment, then smiled softly, shaking his head. “Nothing. I said walk faster, you’re getting my shoes wet.”

Seonghyeon laughed, nudging his shoulder against Keonho’s arm.

He was grateful for the rain. He was profoundly grateful that the weather had swallowed the sound, because if he had heard those words clearly, he knew he would have confessed everything right there on the wet street.

🕸️

“You’re my favorite person.”

The words slipped out into the cool evening air like a stray leaf caught in a draft.

Seonghyeon stopped walking dead in his tracks on the wet sidewalk.

Keonho, who was two paces ahead, turned around slowly, his heart dropping through his stomach. “...What?”

Seonghyeon blinked rapidly, looking around the quiet street near his apartment building as if he’d just woken up from an intense, disorienting nap. “I... I didn't say anything.”

“You did,” Keonho insisted, his voice trembling slightly. “You just said 'You’re my favorite person.'”

“No, I didn't,” Seonghyeon said, his brows pulling together in genuine, deep confusion. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking deeply embarrassed. “I didn't mean to say that out loud. I was just... thinking.”

Keonho stood entirely still under the yellow glow of the street lamp. “Thinking about what?”

Seonghyeon stood there on the pavement, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in his oversized denim jacket. He reached up and pressed two fingers hard against his temple, as if trying to soothe a sharp, sudden migraine.

“Sometimes... I think I remember things that never actually happened to me,” Seonghyeon confessed quietly, his voice laced with a faint, frightened tremor.

Keonho’s heart completely stopped beating. The world seemed to go dead quiet around them. “...What kind of things?”

“Random, stupid things,” Seonghyeon murmured, staring down at his sneakers. “Fragile fragments.”

“Like what?”

Seonghyeon looked up, his dark eyes vulnerable and wide under the yellow lamp light. “Like rain. Walking down a wet street under a black umbrella.”

Keonho said nothing. He couldn't speak. His throat was entirely closed off.

“Like... a high school courtyard,” Seonghyeon continued, his voice barely audible now. “A red brick building. The smell of floor wax. Someone walking right beside me, close enough that our shoulders were touching.”

Keonho’s hands, tucked deep inside his hoodie pockets, curled into tight, hard fists until his nails bit painfully into his palms. “Who was walking beside you?”

“I don't know,” Seonghyeon whispered, shaking his head in deep frustration. “That’s the maddening part. Every time I try to look at their face in my head, it’s completely blurry. It’s like someone took an eraser and scrubbed them out of my brain.”

He let out a short, nervous laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob, wiping his hand across his forehead, “It’s stupid, right? I’m probably just overstressed from exams. Imagining ghost memories.”

Keonho forced his mouth to form a small, gentle, excruciating smile. “Yeah... maybe. You’ve been studying too hard.”

They turned and continued walking toward Seonghyeon’s apartment building. Neither of them spoke for several long, heavy minutes.

As they reached the entrance gate, Seonghyeon paused, his hand resting on the cold iron frame. He looked back over his shoulder at Keonho.

“Hey... Spider-Man?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever dream about people you’ve never met?”

Keonho looked at him, his face bathed in the pale moonlight. “Sometimes.”

“I keep having the same dream. Over and over again for the past few months.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know,” Seonghyeon said softly. “I can never see their face clearly. They’re always standing in the dark, or turned away from me, or wearing something over their head.”

Keonho swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat down. “...but?”

“...but I always wake up with my chest aching,” Seonghyeon admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I wake up knowing, with absolute certainty, that they were the most important person in my entire life.”

Keonho looked away, staring off at the dark skyline of the city, unable to let Seonghyeon see the tears welling in his eyes. “How do you know that if you can't see them?”

Seonghyeon smiled—a tiny, sad, breathtaking little smile.

“I don't know,” he whispered. “I just know.”

🕸️

That night, sleep was an absolute impossibility.

Keonho sat on the edge of his narrow mattress in his dark apartment, staring at the floor. The room was silent save for the rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen area.

On his small wooden desk near the window, the old picture frame sat facing the wall.

Keonho stood up, walked over, and picked it up.

He turned it around. Under the pale moonlight, seventeen-year-old Seonghyeon was smiling brightly at the camera, his arm thrown casually over Keonho’s shoulders against the backdrop of the eastern sea.

Keonho remembered that day down to the second. They had taken an early morning train to the coast on a spontaneous weekend trip. Seonghyeon had complained bitterly for three straight hours about the sand getting inside his socks, and then he had fallen fast asleep against Keonho’s shoulder on the bus ride back to Seoul, drooling slightly on his jacket.

Keonho had taken the photo with an old disposable camera because he had wanted an exact, physical record of that happiness. He had wanted something permanent in an impermanent world.

He turned the wooden frame over in his hands.

Glancing at the back of the print, he noticed the corner of the faded paper backing was slightly peeling away. He remembered the small, scribbled note written there.

A date from five years ago. And beneath it, in shaky, blue ballpoint ink:

To Ahn Keonho. Don’t lose this, you idiot.

Seonghyeon’s distinct, messy handwriting.

Keonho stared at those six words for a long time, his thumb gently tracing the faded ink. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the frame.

🕸️

“You’re going to lose it within forty-eight hours.”

Keonho looked up from his desk, frowning deeply. “Lose what?”

“The photograph,” Seonghyeon said, pointing a finger at the newly printed physical photo resting on Keonho’s desk. “You have the organizational skills of a goldfish.”

“I do not lose things!”

“You literally lost your wallet yesterday at the convenience store.”

“That was a unique, isolated incident involving an overfilled pocket!”

“You lost your house keys last Thursday,” Seonghyeon countered smoothly, ticking the items off on his fingers. “You lost your history notebook three days before that. You lost your phone this morning inside your own bed sheets.”

Keonho let out a long, defeated sigh, slumping back in his chair. “...Okay. Fine. Point taken.”

Seonghyeon laughed bright and loud—a sound that filled the entire room with warmth. He reached across the desk, picked up the photograph, and pulled a blue ballpoint pen out of his pencil case.

Keonho tried to lean over to see what he was doing. “Hey! What are you writing on the back of my photo?”

“Nothing. Mind your own business.”

“It is my business, it’s my photo!”

“It’s a photograph of me,” Seonghyeon pointed out, holding the paper close to his chest as he scribbled furiously on the back. “Therefore, I hold joint copyright privileges.”

Keonho lunged forward to grab it but Seonghyeon twirled out of his chair, dodging him with a triumphant laugh.

“Stop! Let me see!” Keonho demanded, smiling despite himself.

“No! You get to see it later when you’re an old man!” Seonghyeon shouted, sliding the photo into the protective sleeve of Keonho’s desk binder. He turned back, his expression suddenly becoming soft, honest, and entirely serious.

“Keep it safe, Keonho,” he said quietly, looking directly into his eyes. “Don't lose it.”

Keonho stopped reaching for the binder, his smile softening into something deep and steady. “I will.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise.”

🕸️

Keonho opened his eyes.

The dark bedroom was still quiet. The faint blue light of the moon still washed across his small desk.

BZ-ZZT.

His phone, resting on the nightstand, lit up with a bright white rectangle. Keonho set the picture frame down carefully and picked up the device.

hyeonie: are you awake rn?

Keonho stared at the glowing screen for a second before typing back.

spidey: yeah, everything good?

The reply came almost instantly.

hyeonie: can I ask you something kind of strange?

Keonho’s stomach tightened into a hard, cold knot.

spidey: sure, go ahead

The three animated dots appeared on the screen, indicating Seonghyeon was typing. Then they disappeared. Then they appeared again, lingering for nearly a full minute.

Finally, the message popped up:

hyeonie: do you believe that two people can feel like they already know each other... even if they’ve never met before?

Keonho stared down at the glowing text. His breath hitched in his chest.

He didn't answer immediately. He set the phone down, walked back over to the window, and picked up the photograph again. He looked at Seonghyeon’s messy handwriting on the back. He looked at the boy in the picture. He looked at the vast, silent expanse of Seoul stretching out under the dark sky.

He picked the phone back up and typed a single word:

spidey: yes.

A minute passed in complete, agonizing silence.

hyeonie: why?

Keonho looked at the photograph one last time before typing his response slowly, deliberately, with trembling fingers:

spidey: cause sometimes you meet a stranger, and your soul recognizes them before your brain can figure out why.

The typing indicator appeared instantly.

hyeonie: that’s exactly how i feel whenever i’m sitting next to you.

Keonho stopped breathing entirely. The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.

A second message followed right behind it:

hyeonie: pretty weird for a guy i met 3 weeks ago, right?

Keonho stared at the glass screen until the white light blurred into long, watery streaks.

He typed back with a steady hand:

spidey: yeah.

spidey: pretty weird.

He placed the phone face-down on the nightstand, pulled his knees up to his chest, and sat in the quiet darkness of his room for a very long time.

For months—for an agonizing eternity—he had lived under the crushing belief that the single worst fate in the universe was to be completely forgotten by the person you loved most. He had treated the cosmic spell as an absolute, unyielding wall of grief.

But sitting here tonight, listening to the quiet echoes of Seonghyeon’s voice in his mind, he realized he had been wrong.

The worst thing wasn't being forgotten.

The worst, most beautiful, most breathtaking thing in the world was being stripped of every memory, every record, every piece of shared history—and watching that person unconsciously fall back toward you anyway, guided by nothing more than the persistent, undeniable gravity of their own heart.

Keonho looked at the photograph sitting on his desk.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He didn't know if the cosmic magic would ever break, or if Seonghyeon’s lost memories would ever return. He didn't know if they would ever regain the past they had lost.

But for the first time since the spell was cast, Keonho didn't feel like he was desperately chasing a ghost.

Because Eom Seonghyeon was standing right in front of him.

Not the Seonghyeon from the past. Not the boy from the photograph.

Someone new. Someone who didn't know his real story, but was actively, repeatedly choosing to stay beside him anyway.

And as Keonho finally laid his head down on his pillow and closed his eyes, he knew that was more than enough.

🕸️

The physical print of the photograph was sitting face-up on the wooden desk when Seonghyeon finally sat up in bed.

He had spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, tossed between half-formed dreams and the restless prickle of his own thoughts. It wasn't even the piece of glossy photo paper itself that kept him awake. It was the feeling.

That strange, persistent sensation—like an phantom limb aching in cold weather—that a massive piece of his life had been quietly cut out and carried away. Someone was missing.

He had tried to convince himself over the past two weeks that it was nothing. Just a trick of stress. An overactive imagination fueled by late-night study sessions, too much caffeine, and the surreal reality of casually drinking canned coffee with a masked superhero on university rooftops.

But every time he closed his eyes, the exact same sequence played behind his eyelids.

Rain falling heavy against a vinyl umbrella. The echoing quiet of an empty school hallway after hours. Someone walking beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step. A low, familiar voice laughing softly at his terrible jokes.

And a name—a specific, heavy name—that hovered right on the very tip of his tongue, teasing him, just beyond the reach of his conscious mind.

But somehow, every single time he thought of that unknown ghost from his dreams, his mind drifted straight back to the tired guy with messy hair he’d sat across from in the café yesterday. The two felt inextricably bound together, tethered by an invisible cord.

Seonghyeon reached over, his fingers brushing against the cold glass of his smartphone screen. The final text message from Spider-Man was still displayed in the glowing messaging app:

spidey: pretty weird.

Seonghyeon let out a soft, breathy sound that was almost a smile, his thumb tracing the letters. Then his mouth flattened into a quiet frown.

Why did he feel so deeply, agonizingly familiar?

That was the part that kept him awake. He had only known the unmasked Spider-Man for less than forty-eight hours and he didn't even tell him what his real name is. Yet sitting across from him in that small café hadn't felt like meeting someone new at all; it had felt like walking through the front door of a house he had lived in for years.

“You’re staring at your phone like it’s going to explode,” a sharp voice broke his train of thought.

Seonghyeon blinked, pulling his eyes away from the screen as Juhoon dropped into the wooden chair opposite him, slamming a heavy plastic tray containing two iced coffees and a pair of toasted bagels onto the cafeteria table.

“I’m not staring at it,” Seonghyeon lied automatically.

Juhoon leaned across the table, pointing a straw at him. “You’ve been staring at the exact same four-word text bubble since I walked back from the pickup counter five minutes ago, Seonghyeon. I can see the blue screen reflecting in your pupils.”

Seonghyeon sighed, clicking the power button and setting the phone face-down on the Formica table. “Okay. Fine.”

Juhoon unclipped the plastic lid of his coffee cup and took a long sip, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “What’s actually going on with you? You look like you haven't slept in three days.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“That is a blatant, poorly executed lie.”

Seonghyeon rested his elbows on the table, pressing his palms against his face for a moment before looking up at his best friend. “Have you ever felt... like you’ve completely forgotten something massive? Like an entire chunk of your life just got wiped out?”

Juhoon’s casual, teasing posture shifted instantly. He lowered his coffee cup, his expression hardening into genuine concern. “Like what?”

“I don't know,” Seonghyeon murmured, looking down at his own hands resting on the table. “Someone. A person.”

Juhoon remained quiet for a long second, watching the tension in Seonghyeon’s posture. “What makes you suddenly think that?”

“I found an old photograph a few days ago,” Seonghyeon said, his voice dropping low so the students at neighboring tables wouldn't overhear. “The one I mentioned to you.”

“The one from your high school years?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever figure out who that missing guy in the corner was?”

Seonghyeon hesitated, his fingers tightening into a loose fist. “No. I couldn't find his name anywhere in my old school yearbooks.” He swallowed hard, looking up at Juhoon. “But... I think I knew him. Really well.”

Juhoon stared at him, bewildered. “You think? Seonghyeon, if you went to school with the guy, of course you knew him.”

“No, you don't understand,” Seonghyeon pressed, his voice rising slightly with desperate frustration. “I don't remember him. There’s not a single clear memory of his face or his voice in my head.”

“Then how do you know you were close?”

Seonghyeon didn't have a logical answer to give. He turned his head, looking out the large floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the cafeteria toward the rain-slicked courtyard outside.

“Because when I look at the space beside me in that photo...” He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “It feels wrong. It feels like my chest is collapsing.”

Juhoon followed his gaze out the window, his usual sharp banter completely muted by the sheer weight of Seonghyeon’s emotion. He cleared his throat gently. “Maybe... maybe you should actually look into it. Stop guessing.”

“How?”

“Start with the physical evidence,” Juhoon suggested, gesturing toward Seonghyeon’s backpack resting on the extra chair. “Start with the photograph.”

Seonghyeon nodded slowly. He reached into the front pocket of his canvas bag, pulled out the protective plastic sleeve, and laid the glossy photo flat on the table between their coffee cups.

Juhoon leaned in close, studying the image carefully. “Where was this taken?”

“I don't know for sure. The beach, maybe? Or near the river park.”

“High school years?”

“Probably. Look at the track jackets.”

“Who are these other two guys in the background?”

“I don't know,” Seonghyeon admitted, shaking his head hopelessly. “I tried looking up our old class rosters. I don't recognize any of them.”

Juhoon frowned, his eyes scanning the edges of the print. “How do you not recognize people you went to school with?”

“I don't know!” Seonghyeon blurted out, an edge of panic fraying his voice. He tapped his finger against his own image in the print. “That’s me right there. I know my own face. But everyone else around me in this shot... it’s like looking at strangers.”

Juhoon reached out, taking the photograph by its borders and lifting it closer to the light. As he tilted the paper, his eyes caught the faded marks on the reverse side.

“Wait,” Juhoon said, turning the paper around entirely. “There’s writing on the back.”

Seonghyeon leaned forward. He had looked at the back a dozen times in the dark of his room, but under the harsh cafeteria fluorescents, the faded blue ink stood out with stark clarity.

To Keonho. Don’t lose this, you idiot.

Juhoon stared at the handwriting, his dark brows knitting together. “Who’s Keonho?”

Seonghyeon went entirely, utterly still.

The cafeteria noise around him—the clinking of plastic trays, the hum of the crowd, the scraping of chair legs—seemed to instantly mute, dropping into dead, heavy silence.

He parted his lips, whispering the name aloud into the quiet space between them. “Keonho.”

The second the syllables left his mouth, a violent, blinding pain throbbed behind his temples. Something deep inside his chest violently tore free.

For a single, split fraction of a second, the dark veil in his mind parted—

A boy with dark, messy hair laughing under an umbrella.

Warm fingers laced tightly through his own on a cold bench.

A quiet, fond voice whispering directly against his ear: 'You're my favorite person, Seonghyeon.'

Seonghyeon gasped aloud, his hand snapping up to press hard against his forehead as his vision blurred violently.

Juhoon dropped the photo and grabbed Seonghyeon’s shoulder in alarm. “Hey! Seonghyeon! What’s wrong? Are you okay?!”

Seonghyeon dragged in a ragged, shallow breath, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs as the sudden flash of light collapsed back into total, impenetrable darkness. The memory vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind only a bitter taste of copper and a lingering ache in his chest.

He blinked rapidly, wiping a sudden bead of cold sweat from his temple. “I’m... I’m okay.”

“You don't look okay at all,” Juhoon said, his face pale with worry as he held Seonghyeon’s arm tightly. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Seonghyeon stared down at the blue ink on the back of the photograph. He wasn't okay. Not even close.

That evening, Seonghyeon didn't go back to his dorm room. He went straight to the central university library.

He sat in a secluded cubicle on the fourth floor, surrounded by stacks of bound archival volumes and the quiet hum of computer monitors.

He searched the university’s internal digital archives. Keonho. Nothing.

He pulled up digitized yearbooks from high schools across the Mapo and Yongsan districts covering the last six years. He scanned thousands of student mugshots, his eyes burning from the screen glare. No match.

He searched every major social media platform, cross-referencing the name with local neighborhood tags, school groups, and regional forums. Zero results.

It was as if the name had been systematically scrubbed from existence by an invisible eraser. No official records. No digital footprint. No tagged photographs. Absolute, terrifying non-existence.

This 'Keonho' did not exist.

Seonghyeon slammed his hands flat against the wooden desk, leaning back in his plastic chair, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles in utter disbelief. “This is impossible,” he muttered to the empty aisle. “It’s completely impossible.”

He leaned forward again, his fingers hovering over the glowing keyboard.

Then, a sudden, wild thought struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Spider-Man.

Seonghyeon’s heart slammed violently against his sternum. His fingers trembled so hard he could barely control the mouse as he typed into the search bar:

Keonho Spider-Man

The screen flashed: No results found.

He tried different variations, entering name combinations, regional codes, and incident reports. Still nothing.

Then, deep in the search results of a regional local news archive from five years ago, he stumbled across a forgotten promotional article for a high school regional science fair. The main image was a grainy, low-quality scan of a group of students standing in a gymnasium.

Seonghyeon clicked the thumbnail, expanding the image to full screen.

His breath caught sharply in his throat.

There he was. A younger version of himself, wearing a high school uniform that felt vaguely unfamiliar, smiling awkwardly at the camera.

And standing directly beside him, with his arm thrown casually over Seonghyeon’s shoulder, was a boy with dark, messy hair and familiar, warm eyes.

Seonghyeon leaned in until his nose was inches from the glass monitor, zooming the image in until the pixels began to break apart.

The face was unmistakably, undeniably the guy from the café.

Seonghyeon’s lips parted, a quiet, broken whisper tearing from his throat:

“Keonho.”

🕸️

Ahn Keonho knew something was deeply, terribly wrong the exact moment his phone began vibrating in his suit pocket.

He was in the middle of his nightly patrol, crouched on the stone ledge of a commercial building overlooking the university district, the cold night air brushing against his mask. His phone buzzed—not the short, rhythmic pulse of an automated emergency alert, but the continuous, urgent ring of a direct call.

He pulled the phone out. Seonghyeon was flashing across the screen.

Keonho dropped off the ledge, landing softly on the flat gravel roof behind him, and pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Where are you right now?” Seonghyeon’s voice came through the speaker, tight, breathless, and sharp as broken glass.

Keonho frowned behind his mask, his spider-sense giving a faint, uneasy prickle at the base of his neck. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just tell me where you are. Please.”

Keonho hesitated, feeling a sudden, icy drop in his stomach. “I’m... near the university’s east gate. On patrol.”

“Can you meet me? Right now?”

There was something raw and dangerously fragile in Seonghyeon’s tone—a complete absence of his usual playful teasing. Keonho swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Yeah. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Seonghyeon was standing directly under the yellow streetlamp outside the small, shadowed alleyway where the second-floor café was located.

He wasn't wearing his backpack. He wasn't holding a cup of coffee. He was standing completely still in the cool night breeze, his hands shaking slightly as he clutched a single piece of photo paper against his chest.

A soft thud echoed from the shadows above as Spider-Man dropped down from the fire escape, stepping out onto the wet pavement of the alley. Keonho took three steps forward, adjusting his posture into his usual casual stance. “Hey. What’s the emergency? Did another vending machine—”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Seonghyeon didn't say a word. He simply raised his hand and turned the photograph around, holding it out under the harsh yellow glare of the streetlight. Keonho didn't need to step closer to see what it was. He recognized the blue ink on the back. He recognized the beach behind their younger selves.

The air in Keonho’s lungs turned to ice.

Seonghyeon looked at him, his dark eyes wide, shining with unshed tears, and filled with a terrifying, agonizing clarity. “Is your name Keonho?” Seonghyeon asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Keonho didn't answer. He couldn't. The red fabric of his mask felt suddenly suffocating, pulling tight against his mouth. Seonghyeon’s jaw tightened, a quiet, broken laugh escaping his lips. “It is, isn't it? That’s who you are.”

Keonho stood frozen on the pavement, his white eye-lenses fixed on the photo. “Where... where did you get that photograph?”

“I found it in my desk at home,” Seonghyeon said, his voice trembling violently now. “I’ve had it for months. I didn't know who the guy standing next to me was.”

“Seonghyeon—”

“Don't!” Seonghyeon snapped, taking a sudden step back, his shoulders shaking. “Don't say my name like that right now.”

Keonho stopped, reaching up with trembling gloved hands to pull off his mask. He pulled the red cloth over his head, exposing his messy dark hair, his pale face, and the agonizing guilt written across every line of his features.

“Why?” Keonho asked softly, his voice raw.

“Because...” Seonghyeon looked down at the photograph in his trembling hands, a single tear spilling over his lower lid and tracing a wet path down his cheek. “Because every single time you say my name, I feel like I’ve heard you say it ten thousand times before. And it hurts.”

Keonho felt his own heart shatter into a thousand jagged pieces right there in his chest. “Seonghyeon, please.”

Seonghyeon held out the photograph, pointing a shaking finger directly at the teenage boy standing beside him in the image. “That’s you. You went to school with me. You lived in my neighborhood.”

Keonho looked down at the gravel. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?!” Seonghyeon demanded, his voice cracking loudly in the quiet alleyway. “When I asked you your name in the café, when we drank coffee on the roof, when I asked if we’d met before—why did you pretend you were just some random stranger?!”

Keonho looked up, his dark eyes brimming with a desperate, bitter sorrow. “What was I supposed to say to you, Seonghyeon? How was I supposed to explain any of this?”

“The truth!” Seonghyeon shouted, tears streaming freely down his face now. “You should have told me the truth!”

Keonho let out a harsh, bitter laugh that sounded entirely devoid of joy. “You wouldn't have believed me. Nobody would.”

“Try me,” Seonghyeon challenged, taking a step closer, his chest heaving. “Try me right now.”

Keonho stared at him for a long, agonizing moment, the wind rustling through his messy hair.

“You used to be my best friend,” Keonho said quietly, the words dropping like heavy stones into the silence between them.

Seonghyeon went quiet, his mouth slightly open, listening.

“And then...” Keonho swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Something happened. A spell was cast to save the world. A choice was made. And the cost was that every single person in the world forgot who Ahn Keonho was.”

“What?” Seonghyeon whispered, utterly bewildered.

“I lost everyone,” Keonho continued, tears finally slipping down his own cheeks. “My records vanished. My high school diploma disappeared. My friends looked at my face and saw a complete stranger. My family didn't know who I was.”

“Why... why couldn't you just tell me when we met again?”

“Because you didn't remember!” Keonho cried out, his voice filled with months of built-up agony. “The universe rewrote your mind, Seonghyeon! If I told you, you would have thought I was insane! I didn't want to burden you with a ghost!”

Seonghyeon stared at him, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Us...” he whispered, the word hanging thick in the air between them. “We were... just best friends?”

Keonho looked down, his knuckles white as he clutched his mask against his side. “We were best friends for five years.”

He paused, taking a long, painful breath.

“And then... we became something more.”

Seonghyeon’s eyes widened in complete shock. “More?”

Keonho couldn't bring himself to say the word aloud. The pain of stating it to a boy who held no memory of it was too great. So Seonghyeon said it for him, the realization settling into his bones like a heavy frost:

“We were together. You were my boyfriend.”

Keonho looked up, meeting his eyes directly. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The distant hum of city traffic seemed miles away. Seonghyeon looked down at the photograph again, his thumb brushing over their younger selves standing together on the beach—two boys who had loved each other so deeply that they had written promises on the back of a paper print.

“You loved me?” Seonghyeon asked, his voice barely audible.

Keonho’s eyes burned with brilliant, unshed tears. “I still do. I never stopped.”

Seonghyeon looked up sharply, meeting Keonho’s desperate gaze.

Keonho immediately closed his eyes, a wave of intense regret washing over him. He wished with everything inside him that he could pull those words back into his chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know this is way too much.”

“Way too much?” Seonghyeon let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh, wiping his tears with the back of his sleeve. “You’re telling me that I had a boyfriend I loved for years, and my brain completely erased him.”

“You don't have to call it that,” Keonho offered quickly, his voice frantic with worry. “You don't have to carry any of that weight.”

“But you said we were together!”

“We were! But that was before the world broke!” Keonho stepped back, putting distance between them, waving his hands defensively. “What matters now is that you’re safe. You’re alive, you’re at university, you have a good life, you’re okay.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you, Keonho!” Seonghyeon yelled, his voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley.

“I know!”

“Then answer me properly! Why are you stepping away from me?!”

Keonho looked at him, his expression shattering into pure, raw heartbreak. “Because I don't want you to feel like you owe me something! I don't want you looking at me out of obligation or pity!”

Seonghyeon’s face twisted in anger and confusion. “You think I’m standing here crying in an alley out of pity?!”

“No!”

“Then why are you acting like this? Like you’ve already given up on me?!”

“It’s because I loved you with everything I had!” Keonho shouted back, his voice breaking completely. “And you don't remember a single second of it! You don't remember our first kiss, our promises and you don't even remember my face!”

The words echoed in the narrow space, raw and devastating.

Keonho lowered his head, his shoulders slumping as the anger drained out of him, leaving behind only exhaustion. “...and that’s okay,” he added softly, a tiny, bittersweet smile touching his lips. “I’ve had months to accept it. I’ve learned to live with it.”

“No, you haven't,” Seonghyeon said firmly.

Keonho blinked, looking up. “What?”

Seonghyeon stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he was standing just two feet away from Keonho. “You haven't accepted it at all,” Seonghyeon said quietly, looking directly into Keonho’s dark eyes. “You still look at me every single time we meet like you’re desperately waiting for me to wake up and remember your name.”

Keonho’s fragile smile completely vanished. He looked away, unable to deny it. Seonghyeon looked down at his own hands. “I don't remember you, Keonho. I’m staring at your face right now, and my brain can't pull up a single specific memory of us together.”

“I know,” Keonho whispered.

“But...” Seonghyeon took another step forward, his voice dropping into a tender, trembling confession. “When I’m standing next to you... when I hear your voice... when we drink coffee on the roof... I feel something. Something massive.”

Keonho’s pulse hammered wildly against his throat. “Seonghyeon—”

“I don't know what it is yet,” Seonghyeon insisted, looking back up, his eyes shining in the yellow light. “I don't know if it’s a lingering echo of the past or something completely new, but it’s there. I feel it every single day.”

Keonho couldn't speak. The air felt too thick to breathe. Seonghyeon slowly reached his hand out, his fingers hovering inches away from Keonho’s arm. He hesitated for a long second, his thumb twitching, before slowly lowering his hand back to his side.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghyeon murmured softly.

“You don't have to apologize for anything,” Keonho said gently.

“I feel like I’m constantly hurting you just by standing here being clueless.”

“You aren't hurting me.”

“I am,” Seonghyeon insisted, tears welling in his eyes again. “I can see it on your face.”

Keonho shook his head firmly. “You didn't choose to forget me, Seonghyeon. The universe forced that choice on you to keep you alive. None of this is your fault.”

“But I still forgot you,” Seonghyeon whispered, his chest aching. “I left you all alone.”

“And that wasn't your fault either,” Keonho replied softly, his eyes filled with endless, unconditional grace.

Seonghyeon looked at him for a long, quiet minute, studying the sharp line of Keonho’s jaw, the scar near his eyebrow, the gentle sadness in his smile. “Can I ask you something?” Seonghyeon whispered.

“Anything you want.”

“What was I like?” Seonghyeon asked, a faint, fragile smile touching his wet lips. “Before... before the world wiped everything out?”

Keonho blinked, a soft, genuine warmth returning to his eyes. “Before?”

“Yeah. What kind of person was I back then?”

Keonho let out a quiet, breathless laugh, looking up at the night sky. “You were ridiculously annoying.”

Seonghyeon let out a sudden, wet laugh through his tears, wiping his cheek with his jacket sleeve. “That’s incredibly rude!”

“You literally asked me!” Keonho teased gently.

“What else?”

“You complained endlessly about everything,” Keonho said, counting on his fingers. “About school, about the weather, about cafeteria food.”

“I still do all of those things,” Seonghyeon noted, a small smile breaking through his tears.

“Exactly. Some things don't change.” Keonho smiled softly. “You stole half the food off my plate every time we ate together.”

“I still do that to you.”

“You adamantly refused to eat raw tomatoes.”

“I still hate them.”

“You always forgot to bring an umbrella whenever it rained.”

“I broke one two days ago,” Seonghyeon admitted, a quiet laugh escaping him.

Keonho chuckled softly, his dark eyes fixed on Seonghyeon’s face. “Yeah. I know.”

Seonghyeon stared at him, his heart beating with a strange, rhythmic warmth. “What else was I like?”

Keonho’s smile softened into something deeply profound, filled with five years of unspoken devotion.

“You laughed really loudly,” Keonho said softly. “You always pretended like you didn't care about anything, like you were too cool for emotions.” His voice dropped into a tender whisper. “But the truth was, you cared about everything and everyone far too much. You were impossibly kind.”

Seonghyeon looked down, his eyes flooding with fresh tears.

“And...” Keonho paused, his breath hitching.

“And what?”

Keonho looked directly into Seonghyeon’s eyes, the yellow street light reflecting in his dark pupils.

“You were my favorite person in the entire world.”

Seonghyeon’s tears spilled over freely, slipping down his jaw. He reached up, hastily wiping them away with his sleeve, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Sorry... I’m turning into a mess tonight.”

Keonho smiled softly, stepping half a pace closer. “Don't be sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I really don't like seeing you cry.”

“Well, you’re the one making me cry with all these poetic speeches,” Seonghyeon grumbled playfully, trying to compose himself.

“Then I’ll stop,” Keonho said smoothly. He pulled his red fabric mask back over his face, hiding his features once more behind the white lenses of Spider-Man. “I should let you get back home. It’s late.”

He turned around, flexing his knees as if preparing to launch himself up toward the brick fire escape above.

Seonghyeon’s hand moved on pure, unthinking instinct. He reached out and grabbed the fabric of Spider-Man’s sleeve, his grip tight and firm.

Keonho stopped instantly, freezing in place. He looked back over his shoulder.

Seonghyeon stared down at his own hand gripping the suit sleeve, then raised his eyes to meet the white lenses of the mask. “Don't disappear,” Seonghyeon whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, desperate plea. “Please don't walk away and vanish into the city again.”

Keonho felt a quiet warmth bloom through the cold ache in his ribs.

“I won't,” Keonho promised softly behind the cloth.

“Promise me?”

Keonho offered a simple, familiar two-finger salute. “I promise.”

🕸️

Late that night, Seonghyeon sat on the hardwood floor of his dark bedroom.

The physical print of the photograph was resting flat on the floor in front of his crossed knees. He stared down at the teenage boy standing beside him in the image—Ahn Keonho.

A person who had apparently been the central axis of his entire adolescent life. Someone he had loved deeply, held hands with, shared secrets with, and ultimately forgotten under the weight of a cosmic reset.

Seonghyeon leaned his head back against the side of his bed, closing his eyes tightly. He still couldn't recall a single specific memory of loving him. He couldn't remember their first kiss, or their arguments, or their quiet moments in empty classrooms.

But when he sat there in the dark, breathing quietly, he could almost feel the phantom weight of it all. A warm hand holding his in the winter cold. Someone walking beside him under a black umbrella through heavy rain. A clear, happy voice laughing at his terrible jokes on the concrete school steps.

'You're my favorite person.'

Seonghyeon pressed his palms hard against his eyes, dragging in a shuddering breath. “Who are you...?” he whispered to the dark, empty room.

The physical photograph offered no answers. The quiet apartment remained still.

BZ-ZZT.

His phone, resting on the floor beside his leg, lit up with a soft blue glow.

keonho: did you get back to your room okay?

Seonghyeon stared down at the simple text bubble for a long moment, a soft, genuine smile spreading across his tired face.

hyeonie: yeah, i’m home.

He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the glass keyboard as his heart hammered against his ribs. He typed out a name, paused, erased it, and then typed it again.

hyeonie: keonho?

The reply came almost instantaneously:

keonho: yeah?

Seonghyeon stared at the screen, his breath catching in his throat. He had a million complex questions he could ask. He could ask for more stories, more details, more proof of their lost past.

Instead, he wiped a final stray tear from his eye and typed the only words that truly mattered:

hyeonie: can we start over?

There was a long, excruciating pause. The three animated typing dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.

Finally, the screen updated:

keonho: okay

A second message flashed immediately after:

keonho: i’d really like that.

Seonghyeon smiled, setting the phone down against his chest and letting out a long, peaceful breath.

For the first time in months, the name 'Keonho' didn't feel like a terrifying, gaping void in his memory. It didn't feel like a tragic ghost he was forced to mourn. It felt like someone real, sitting somewhere in the city right now, waiting to meet him.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe they didn't need to frantically dig through the ashes of a destroyed past to recover every forgotten detail. Maybe they could simply stand in the present and build something entirely new—something built on choices rather than old habits, belonging only to the people they were today.

But sitting alone in his dark room, neither of them quite realized yet that starting over from scratch would prove far harder than simply remembering because this time, there was no years-long safety net of childhood history to fall back on. There were no shared routines or default comfort.

This time, in a world that had erased their past, they would have to consciously look at each other, choose each other, and fall in love all over again.

🕸️

Starting over was infinitely harder than Seonghyeon had expected.

There was no dramatic cinematic change when the sun rose the next morning. He didn’t wake up to a sudden flood of forgotten years, nor did a magical wave of clarity sweep through his mind to click the missing pieces of his life back into place. The dark void in his memory remained just as absolute, silent, and vast as it had been the night before.

He was still Seonghyeon. He still picked the raw tomatoes off his sandwiches and set them on the edge of his plate. He still managed to forget his umbrella on every single morning that held a forty percent chance of rain. His cheap laptop still locked up and refused to cooperate whenever a research deadline was less than an hour away.

And Keonho was still, for all practical intents and purposes, a guy Seonghyeon had only officially known for a few weeks.

Except now, the weight of the universe sat squarely between them. Seonghyeon knew that those few casual weeks in the café weren’t a fresh beginning at all; they were a second beginning, built upon the hidden foundation of an entire erased lifetime.

And somehow, knowing that truth made every single interaction ten times more complicated.

Keonho was already waiting outside the main gates of the university building when Seonghyeon arrived that afternoon.

He was leaning back against a green steel streetlight pole, his thumbs hooked casually into the front pockets of his worn dark jacket, his gaze fixed on his own sneakers. He looked like an ordinary student waiting for a friend, but the sharp, alert way his head snapped up the moment Seonghyeon crossed the street betrayed the superhuman reflexes hidden beneath his clothes.

Seonghyeon stopped a few paces away, clutching the strap of his backpack with both hands. “You look ridiculously nervous.”

Keonho instantly straightened up, clearing his throat and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You definitely do.”

Keonho offered a small, thoroughly awkward smile, shifting his gaze toward the nearby oak trees. “Maybe because yesterday you found out I used to be your boyfriend.”

Seonghyeon blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Ex-boyfriend?”

Keonho’s tentative expression faltered slightly, a shadow of genuine pain passing across his eyes before he masked it with a quiet nod. “Technically, yeah. I guess so.”

Seonghyeon nodded slowly, feeling the phantom ache in his chest again. “Right.”

A thick, agonizingly heavy silence stretched between them. Students brushed past on the sidewalk, laughing and talking about midterms, entirely unaware of the temporal drama unfolding on the concrete beside them.

Finally, Seonghyeon let out a sharp, breathy sound and began to laugh. “This is insanely weird.”

Keonho let out a quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders lowering. “Very.”

“How are we even supposed to act right now?” Seonghyeon asked, gesturing vaguely between the two of them. “Do we act like strangers? Do we act like people who used to hold hands?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Keonho admitted honestly.

“Good.”

Keonho frowned, amused. “Why is that good?”

“Because if you actually knew the exact rulebook for this, I’d feel ten times worse about having no clue.”

Keonho laughed—a genuine, warm sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

They fell into step beside each other, heading down the wide stone path toward the central campus plaza. For several long minutes, neither of them spoke, the silence between them settling into something far less hostile than before, though still buzzing with unsaid thoughts.

Finally, Seonghyeon broke the quiet. “So...”

“Hm?” Keonho tilted his head toward him.

“What do you remember?”

“About what?”

“Us,” Seonghyeon said softly, keeping his eyes on the pavement ahead. “Before everything was reset.”

Keonho looked at him, his gaze soft and lingering. “Everything.”

Seonghyeon paused, taking that in. “Everything?”

“Pretty much every single day,” Keonho confirmed quietly. “Every conversation. Every stupid argument. Every place we went.”

Seonghyeon was quiet for a moment, processing the terrifying isolation Keonho must have lived in for months, carrying an entire shared history alone in his head.

“What’s your favorite memory?” Seonghyeon asked, looking up at him curiosity.

Keonho’s lips curved into a faint smile. “That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“There are way too many to pick just one.”

“Come on,” Seonghyeon pressed, nudging Keonho’s elbow gently with his arm. “Pick one right now. The first one that comes to your head.”

Keonho thought about it for a second, his eyes softening as he looked back into the past. Then a slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You fell asleep on my shoulder during a movie at the small theater down by the river.”

Seonghyeon laughed, surprised. “That’s your absolute favorite memory? Out of everything?”

“You were drooling straight through my favorite hoodie,” Keonho added with absolute conviction.

“I was not!” Seonghyeon blurted out, his cheeks instantly flushing red.

“You 100% were. A massive wet patch right on the shoulder.”

“I don’t drool in my sleep!”

“You absolutely do,” Keonho insisted, grinning brightly now. “You do it whenever you’re exhausted.”

Seonghyeon gave him a sharp, playful shove on the shoulder. Keonho stumbled back with exaggerated dramatic flair, his laugh bright and clear in the cool afternoon air.

For a brief, shining moment, the immense weight of the universe lifted. It felt easy. It felt natural, like slipping into an old, comfortable jacket that had been sitting in the back of a closet for years.

Then Seonghyeon slowed his pace, the smile fading into something much quieter. “Did we have... a lot of moments like this?”

Keonho’s laughter died down, replaced by a gentle, tender focus as he looked at Seonghyeon. “Yeah. Almost every day.”

“Then tell me more,” Seonghyeon asked softly, turning to face him fully on the path. “Tell me everything about what we used to be.”

Keonho stopped in his tracks, his smile disappearing completely as he shook his head. “No.”

Seonghyeon frowned, caught off guard by the sudden refusal. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to fall in love with a ghost,” Keonho said quietly.

Seonghyeon stared at him, motionless. “You want me to just pretend none of it happened? You want me to forget?”

“No,” Keonho said firmly, taking a half-step closer. “I don’t want you to force yourself to fall in love with a memory of a guy who lived six months ago in a world that doesn't exist anymore. I don't want you searching my face for someone else.”

He took a slow, deep breath, his dark eyes locking onto Seonghyeon’s with absolute sincerity. “I want you to know me,” Keonho murmured. “Not the person you were supposed to love because of some faded photograph or a sense of guilt. Just me. Right now.”

Something tight and heavy inside Seonghyeon’s chest loosened, a profound warmth spreading through his veins. He looked at Keonho’s determined, vulnerable expression and felt a quiet wave of respect wash over him.

“Okay,” Seonghyeon whispered softly. “Okay.”

They didn't try to force a grand romance back into existence. Instead, they started with the smallest, most ordinary things.

Keonho learned that no matter how freezing the winter winds got, Seonghyeon would strictly order iced Americanos, stubbornly holding the plastic cup with gloved hands.

Seonghyeon learned that Keonho was an absolute nightmare in the morning—that without mask duty forcing him awake, he would sleep through three distinct alarms and grumble incessantly at the sunlight.

Keonho learned that when Seonghyeon was overwhelmed by study stress or chaotic crowds, he didn't snap; he simply went completely quiet, retreating into his own head until he felt safe.

Seonghyeon learned that whenever Keonho was nervous about something—whether it was an upcoming physics exam or a suspicious street gang hovering near an alley—he would subconsciously hum a terrible, off-key pop song under his breath.

They began spending their afternoons together in quiet, unremarkable ways. They found small, hidden cafés near the edge of campus where the Wi-Fi was fast and the music was quiet. They walked through the university grounds after sunset, their shadows stretching long across the pavement. They sat side by side on high, isolated rooftops, dangling their legs over the concrete ledges while watching the endless red tail-lights of city traffic crawl through the streets below.

Sometimes, Seonghyeon couldn't help himself. He would ask quiet, hesitant questions about the past.

“Did I like winter back then?”

“Did we ever go on a real trip together?”

“Who confessed first?”

Sometimes, Keonho would offer a gentle answer, his eyes clouding over with fond nostalgia. Other times, he would simply smile, ruffle Seonghyeon’s hair, and change the subject to something happening right in front of them.

Neither of them forced the doors of memory to break down. And slowly, day by day, the suffocating awkwardness between them dissolved into something genuine, warm, and real.

On a cold Tuesday afternoon, Seonghyeon was sitting cross-legged on the worn fabric of Keonho’s small living room couch, absently flipping through a stack of old architecture magazines he’d found on the coffee table.

Keonho was rummaging through the tiny kitchen nook just a few feet away, slamming cabinet doors in search of food. Seonghyeon raised his voice over the noise. “Do you actually have anything edible in this apartment, or are we going to starve?”

“There’s instant ramen!” Keonho shouted back from behind a cabinet door.

“Where?”

“Top cabinet on the left!”

Seonghyeon pushed himself up off the couch, walked into the kitchen nook, and pulled open the top left wooden door. It contained two dusty ceramic mugs and a box of green tea bags.

“There’s no ramen here, Keonho.”

Keonho poked his head out from under the sink, a smudge of dust on his cheek. “Check the bottom cabinet under the counter!”

Seonghyeon crouched down, opened the lower cabinet door, and stared into the empty space containing only a roll of paper towels and an old toaster. “There is zero ramen down here.”

Keonho stood up, frowning in deep confusion. “Wait. That’s impossible. I bought a six-pack three days ago.” He walked over, pushed Seonghyeon gently aside, and stared into the empty cabinet himself. He blinked once. Twice. Then he slapped his hand against his own forehead. “Oh.”

Seonghyeon narrowed his eyes at him. “What ‘oh’?”

“I ate the last three packs late last night after patrol,” Keonho confessed, looking thoroughly sheepish. “I completely forgot.”

Seonghyeon let out a loud, disbelieving laugh, folding his arms over his chest. “You literally stood there two minutes ago and assured me with absolute confidence that we had food! You have the worst memory of any human being alive!”

Keonho turned around sharply, pointing a finger at him with a deadpan expression. “You literally forgot your entire two-year relationship with me.”

The words bounced off the walls of the small kitchen, sharp and loud. Keonho instantly froze. His jaw dropped slightly, his eyes widening in sheer terror as his brain caught up with what his mouth had just blurted out. The color completely drained from his face.

Seonghyeon froze in place as well, his eyes wide.

An absolute, terrifying silence descended upon the apartment.

Keonho swallowed hard, taking a desperate half-step back, raising his hands defensively. “Seonghyeon, I am so sorry. That was terrible. That was an awful joke, I didn't mean to—”

Before Keonho could finish his panic-stricken apology, Seonghyeon’s face crumpled. He dropped his head back, covered his face with both hands, and burst into a loud, uncontrollable fit of laughter. Keonho stared at him in utter shock, completely paralyzed. “...Was that not too soon?”

“No!” Seonghyeon gasped out through his laughter, leaning against the kitchen counter as his shoulders shook. “It was... it was hilariously dark!”

“Don't laugh!” Keonho groaned, burying his face in his own hands, his face burning red. “I felt my soul physically leave my body the second the word 'forgot' left my mouth!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Seonghyeon wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye as he pulled his hands away from his face. “I’m trying to make this whole situation less awkward for us, and you just drop a nuclear bomb on the conversation!”

“You pushed me into a corner!” Keonho defended himself, though a helpless, relieved grin was spreading across his own face now. “You insulted my short-term memory!”

“Because your short-term memory is objectively terrible!”

Keonho laughed—a bright, ringing sound that filled the small apartment. Seonghyeon looked at him, his own smile softening as the laughter quieted down between them.

It was a strange, delicate realization. The giant, tragic shadow that had once been painful enough to destroy them—the erased past, the stolen memories, the lost relationship—was slowly, miraculously becoming something they could actually talk about without falling apart.

Not because the pain had magically vanished. But because, together, they were finally learning how to carry it without letting it crush them.

A few nights later, while sitting on the ledge of a high-rise building watching the neon lights of the city glitter below, Seonghyeon turned to Keonho with a completely serious expression and asked him to teach him how to web-swing.

Keonho, who was sitting beside him with his mask resting around his neck, didn't hesitate for a single microsecond.

“No.”

“Why not?” Seonghyeon whined, leaning closer.

“Because absolutely not. Under any circumstances.”

“I trust you!”

“That is the core problem here,” Keonho said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Your complete lack of survival instinct is terrifying. You’re an ordinary human; you don't have super-strength!”

“I won’t fall,” Seonghyeon insisted stubbornly.

“You said that exact same sentence right before you fell off a low library stepstool three days ago and bruised your knee!”

“I have never swung off the side of a thirty-story building before!” Seonghyeon argued, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Exactly! That supports my point!”

“You do it every single night!”

“I am genetically altered!” Keonho shouted back, exasperated. “I’m trained for this!”

“Then train me right now!”

“No.”

“Please, Keonho?” Seonghyeon pleaded, softening his voice and leaning into Keonho’s space, widening his eyes dramatically. “Just one quick jump? From a medium building?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Stop looking at me like that. The answer is no.”

“Keonho.”

Keonho stared into Seonghyeon’s wide, hopeful eyes for five agonizing seconds. He let out a long, miserable, defeated sigh, running a hand through his messy hair.

“...Fine. But if you pass out, I’m dropping you back on your couch and never speaking to you again.”

Five minutes later, Seonghyeon was standing on the narrow stone ledge of a rooftop twenty stories above the pavement. He took one single glance down at the tiny, ant-sized yellow taxis moving on the street below, and immediately snapped his head straight back up toward the sky, his knuckles turning chalk-white as he gripped the stone behind him.

“How... how high up are we right now?” Seonghyeon squeaked, his voice pitching an octave higher than normal.

“Not that high,” Keonho said smoothly, stepping up beside him. “Maybe two hundred feet.”

“You are lying to me to preserve my psychological stability.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Keonho admitted with a smirk.

Seonghyeon snapped his head toward him, glaring fiercely. “You swore on your life ten minutes ago that you wouldn't let me fall.”

“And I won't,” Keonho said, his tone instantly shifting into something steady, warm, and entirely grounded. “I have never dropped anything in my life, Seonghyeon. Especially not you.”

“Promise?”

Keonho smiled softly, pulling a spare, oversized fabric mask over Seonghyeon’s head to shield his face from the brutal wind, adjusting the fabric around his eyes. “Promise.”

Keonho stepped in close behind Seonghyeon, sliding his arm securely around Seonghyeon’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest until there was no space left between them. Seonghyeon felt the solid, impossible strength in Keonho’s frame, the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heart against his back.

Keonho raised his right arm, aiming his web-shooter at the reinforced steel beam of a higher commercial tower across the avenue.

“You just hold on to me,” Keonho instructed near his ear. “Tightly. Don't let go.”

“That’s it?” Seonghyeon asked, clutching Keonho’s jacket with both hands as if his life depended on it. “That’s the entire safety brief?”

“That’s the whole brief.”

Seonghyeon looked thoroughly unconvinced, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

Keonho held out his hand, locking his fingers tightly with Seonghyeon’s free hand. “Ready?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“Good enough for me.”

Before Seonghyeon could scream a protest, Keonho pushed off the ledge with incredible force.

They launched straight out into the open night air.

Seonghyeon let out a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream that vibrated right through his mask as gravity suddenly vanished beneath his feet. They plunged down toward the street in a terrifying freefall for two agonizing seconds before the web line caught tight, snapping them into a massive, arc-like swing through the sky.

Keonho burst into bright, ecstatic laughter beside him as the wind roared past them.

“You’re laughing?!” Seonghyeon shrieked, his eyes squeezed shut as they swept through the air fifty miles an hour. “I am having a total cardiac arrest and you are laughing?!”

“Because you’re screaming like a tea kettle!” Keonho yelled back over the rushing wind, pulling Seonghyeon even tighter against his side.

“I am going to murder you the second my feet touch solid earth!”

“You can’t even open your eyes to aim a punch!”

“I hate you so much, Ahn Keonho!”

Keonho grinned broadly beneath his mask, his grip unbreakable. “Yeah, yeah! I’ve heard that one before!”

They swung up into the apex of the arc, hovering weightless in the air for a glorious, suspended second over the city grid before swooping back down toward another roof.

Slowly, carefully, Seonghyeon cracked one eye open. The terror didn't vanish completely, but as the wind rushed past his skin and the glowing, golden lights of the metropolis swept beneath them in a stunning, endless sea of brilliance, the fear was instantly swallowed whole by breathtaking awe.

The city didn't look chaotic or overwhelming from up here. It looked alive, magnificent, and silent. And through it all, wrapped tightly around him, was the immovable, warm anchor of Keonho’s arms holding him safe against the sky.

When Keonho finally landed them softly on the flat gravel roof of a bank building three blocks away, Seonghyeon’s legs immediately buckled. Keonho caught him easily, holding him up as Seonghyeon pulled off the fabric mask.

Seonghyeon’s hair was completely ruined, sticking up in wild, windswept directions. His cheeks were flushed bright pink from the cold air, his dark eyes wide and brilliant with adrenaline.

He stood there for three seconds, gasping for air, and then a wide, breathless grin split across his face.

“Again.”

Keonho stared at him, utterly bewildered. “What?”

“Do it again!” Seonghyeon shouted, a wild, ecstatic laugh bubbling out of his chest.

“You just screamed that you hated me and were going to murder me!”

“That was fifty feet ago!” Seonghyeon insisted, grabbing Keonho’s jacket lapels and pulling him toward the edge. “I want to go again right now!”

Keonho looked at Seonghyeon’s shining, radiant face, his own heart leaping into his throat with profound, overwhelming affection.

“Okay,” Keonho whispered softly, smiling warmly. “Let’s go again.”

An hour later, the adrenaline had cooled into a quiet, peaceful stillness.

They sat side by side on the quiet rooftop edge of the university clock tower, their backs resting against the cool brick wall. Seonghyeon had his knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on his arms as he stared out at the sprawling city horizon.

“I get it now,” Seonghyeon said softly, breaking the silence.

Keonho tilted his head toward him. “Get what?”

“This,” Seonghyeon gestured with his chin toward the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul below them. “Why you come up here every night. Why you stay up so late.”

Keonho looked back out at the city, the night air rustling his dark hair. “It’s peaceful up here. Down there, everything is noise, traffic, and people pushing past each other. Up here, you can actually breathe.”

Seonghyeon looked sideways at Keonho’s profile—the sharp line of his nose, the steady focus in his dark eyes. “Do you ever get scared out there? When you’re fighting criminals or stopping accidents?”

“All the time,” Keonho admitted without a second of hesitation. “Every single time I pull that suit on, my hands shake.”

“You never look scared.”

“That’s the beauty of wearing a mask,” Keonho said with a faint, wry smile. “Nobody can see you swallowing down your panic.”

Seonghyeon pulled his chin off his knees, studying him quietly. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you actually become Spider-Man?” Seonghyeon asked, his voice earnest and gentle. “I read the news stories. I know about the spider bite and the lab incident. But lots of people get strange abilities and just try to live normal lives. What made you choose to jump off buildings to save strangers every night?”

Keonho went very quiet. He looked away toward the distant skyline, the soft glow of the city reflecting in his dark eyes.

“Someone I loved very much once told me something,” Keonho said softly, his voice dropping into a tender, solemn register. “They told me that if you have the ability to fix something broken in the world, or help someone who can’t protect themselves, you have a responsibility to do it. That sitting back and doing nothing when you could have helped is the worst kind of selfish.”

Seonghyeon’s breath caught slightly in his throat. He looked at Keonho, feeling a strange, deep vibration in his chest. “Who said that to you?”

Keonho turned his head, looking directly into Seonghyeon’s eyes with an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion.

“You did.”

Seonghyeon went completely motionless. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Keonho murmured, a faint, fond smile gracing his lips. “A little over two years ago. We were sitting on a bench in the park after I tried to hide a massive bruise on my ribs. You looked me right in the eye and said those exact words.”

Seonghyeon looked down at his own hands resting on his knees, his mind racing, trying to grasp the shadow of a speech he had no conscious recollection of making. Yet, deep down in his core, he knew those words belonged to him. He knew the absolute truth of them.

He raised his head, looking back at Keonho. “Then I guess... the old me was actually pretty smart.”

Keonho’s smile widened, soft and breathtakingly warm. “Yeah. He really was.”

The clouds rolled in suddenly, without any warning from the weather apps.

A sudden, sharp crack of thunder echoed overhead, and within seconds, heavy, fat raindrops began pelted down onto the rooftop. Seonghyeon let out a miserable groan, throwing his head back. “Of course. Of course it starts pouring the second we’re stuck on top of a thirty-story building!”

Keonho burst into laughter, pushing himself up off the gravel. “Did you bring an umbrella?”

“No!” Seonghyeon yelled over the sound of the falling rain.

“Of course you didn't!”

“Don't you dare start lecturing me right now, Ahn Keonho!”

“Come on, before we get completely soaked!” Keonho grabbed Seonghyeon’s hand, pulling him toward the raised brick overhang near the maintenance stairwell that offered a small roof of shelter from the downpour.

They bolted under the narrow overhang, but as they hit the wet concrete, Seonghyeon’s sneaker slipped on a slick patch of moss. He let out a sharp gasp as his balance vanished, his hands flying out into the air.

Keonho’s superhuman instincts reacted instantly. His arm shot out, wrapping tightly around Seonghyeon’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest to arrest his fall.

They came to a sudden, complete stop.

They were standing impossibly close. Seonghyeon’s front was pressed directly against Keonho’s, their faces only inches apart under the shadowed concrete overhang. Outside their tiny sanctuary, a thick wall of grey rain beat down violently against the gravel, creating a cocoon of total privacy around them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them pulled away.

The cold rain splashed off the edges of the roof, spraying a fine mist over their skin, but Seonghyeon didn't feel cold at all. He could feel the intense, radiant heat radiating off Keonho’s body. He could hear the rapid, heavy thudding of Keonho’s heartbeat—or was it his own? He couldn't tell anymore.

“You’re staring,” Seonghyeon whispered, his voice trembling slightly in the quiet space between them.

“So are you,” Keonho replied, his dark eyes locked onto Seonghyeon’s lips before rising back up to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

Keonho offered a small, breathless smile, his breath blooming white in the cool air. He slowly pulled his hand back from Seonghyeon’s waist, stepping half an inch away to give him space.

Seonghyeon didn't step back. He kept his eyes fixed entirely on Keonho.

There was something magnetic, terrifying, and overwhelmingly powerful humming in the air between them. Something that had nothing to do with erased history, lost years, or faded photographs.

It was simply Keonho. The way his dark hair clung to his forehead when it was wet. The gentle, protective strength in his hands. The absolute, unshakeable devotion in his eyes whenever he looked at Seonghyeon.

In that single, quiet moment under the rain, a sudden, blinding realization struck Seonghyeon straight through his chest like a lightning bolt:

He wanted to kiss him.

The realization sent a wave of absolute panic shooting through his veins.

It terrified him to his very core. This wasn't supposed to happen yet. He had only learned three days ago that they had been together in a forgotten lifetime. How could his heart be beating this violently? How could he be falling for this guy all over again when he didn't even have the memories to justify it?

“Keonho?” Seonghyeon whispered, his voice cracking.

“Hm?” Keonho waited, watching him patiently, his expression entirely gentle.

“Can I— can I ask you...” Seonghyeon stammered, his mind whirling in absolute chaos. He swallowed hard, his confidence completely collapsing under the weight of Keonho’s focused gaze. “...never mind, it’s nothing.”

Keonho looked at him, a deeply tender, understanding smile touching his lips. He didn't push. He didn't demand an answer. He simply reached out and lightly tapped Seonghyeon’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Keonho said softly bur the quiet, knowing warmth in Keonho’s eyes said that he understood perfectly. And somehow, that subtle understanding made Seonghyeon’s heart hammer twice as fast.

Late that night, after Keonho had safely dropped him off at his apartment building, Seonghyeon stood in the harsh fluorescent lighting of his small bathroom, staring directly at his own reflection in the mirror.

His hair was still damp from the rain. His cheeks were slightly flushed.

He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the edge of the porcelain sink, and whispered his confession out loud into the quiet room:

“I like him.”

The words sounded strange bouncing off the bathroom tiles. Not wrong. Not forced by guilt or history. Just raw, terrifyingly new, and undeniably real.

He walked into his dark bedroom and sat down on the edge of his mattress. He reached onto his nightstand and picked up the protective sleeve containing the faded high school photograph.

For the very first time since he had found it, Seonghyeon didn't feel a bitter sting of jealousy toward the teenage version of himself standing in the print.

The Seonghyeon in the photograph had loved Ahn Keonho with everything he had. That was an undeniable truth carved into the past. But the person sitting here right now, in this dark bedroom, was different. He didn't possess those high school memories. He didn't carry that specific history in his mind.

And yet—he was falling for Keonho anyway.

Maybe love wasn't a static collection of stored data in a brain. Maybe it wasn't something that belonged strictly to memories. Maybe love was an innate, cellular gravity that belonged entirely to the person—an irresistible pull that would find its target no matter how many times the universe tried to rewrite the script.

Seonghyeon raised the photo, a soft, peaceful smile gracing his lips as he brushed his thumb over the teenage boy in the uniform.

“You’re ridiculously lucky,” Seonghyeon whispered fondly to his younger self. “You got to know him first.”

Across the city, high above the bustling midnight streets, Keonho was sitting alone on the edge of his favorite water tower rooftop. His red mask was resting on the cold steel beside his leg. The chilly night wind blew through his hair as he stared down at the glowing screen of his smartphone held tightly in his hand.

BZ-ZZT.

A text message materialized on the screen:

hyeonie: are you still awake?

Keonho’s lips curved into a soft smile.

keonho: yeah. always.

hyeonie: can i see you again? like right now?

Keonho’s heart gave a sudden, violent leap against his ribs. He sat up straight on the cold steel.

keonho: sure. i can swing over to your window in two minutes.

A few seconds passed. The three typing dots flickered on the screen.

hyeonie: not spider-man.

Keonho froze, staring intensely at the illuminated text.

Another bubble appeared immediately beneath it:

hyeonie: just keonho. come as yourself.

Keonho raised his head slowly, looking out over the sprawling, glowing sea of the city skyline.

For six long, brutal months, ever since the spell had wiped his existence from the earth, he had convinced himself that Spider-Man was the only entity left of him that mattered. Ahn Keonho was a ghost, a dead name with no records, no family, and no place in the world.

But right now, sitting in a small apartment three miles away, there was someone waiting specifically to see him. Not the hero. Not the mask. Not the city’s savior.

Just Keonho.

A tear welled in Keonho’s eye, catching the blue light of the screen. He typed back quickly:

keonho: okay.

keonho: i’ll be down there in five minutes.

Ten minutes later, Seonghyeon was standing outside the front glass doors of his apartment building under the warm yellow glow of the entrance light.

He heard quiet footsteps approaching on the sidewalk.

Keonho walked into the ring of yellow light. He wasn't wearing his suit. He was wearing an oversized black hoodie, dark jeans, and beat-up sneakers, his hands buried deep in his front pockets, his dark hair messy from the wind.

No mask. No hero alter-ego. Just Keonho.

Seonghyeon offered a soft, quiet smile. “Hi.”

Keonho stopped three feet away, looking at him with tender uncertainty. “Hi.”

They stood there beneath the bright light, an awkward, charged stillness settling over them once more.

Seonghyeon took a slow, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked Keonho directly in the eyes.

“I think I like you.”

Keonho went utterly, completely rigid. His jaw dropped slightly. “What?”

“I know,” Seonghyeon said, letting out a nervous, breathless laugh, his face turning bright red. “It’s weird. It’s insanely fast.”

“It’s... very weird,” Keonho stammered out, his brain entirely short-circuiting.

“But...” Seonghyeon took another step forward, closing the distance between them until he was standing right in front of Keonho. “I don't want to stand here and pretend that I don't feel it. I don't want to lie to you.”

Keonho stared at him, his dark eyes wide and shining in the streetlight. “You don't have to lie to me.”

“I still don't remember loving you in high school,” Seonghyeon said honestly, his voice dropping into a tender, quiet register. “I don't have those memories back.”

“I know,” Keonho whispered.

“But I think...” Seonghyeon looked up, meeting Keonho’s gaze with absolute, unshakeable certainty. “...I think I’m falling for you all over again. Right now.”

Keonho’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his eyes welling with brilliant tears. “Seonghyeon...”

“I’m not asking you to try and recreate the guy you used to be with me,” Seonghyeon murmured, a soft, radiant smile gracing his features as he reached out and gently brushed his fingers against Keonho’s sleeve. “I’m asking you to let me get to know the person standing right here in front of me.”

Keonho couldn't formulate a single coherent sentence. The overwhelming joy, relief, and profound love crashing through his chest felt like a tidal wave tearing down every last wall of isolation he had built over the past six months.

He slowly nodded his head, a single tear spilling over his lower lid. “Okay.”

Seonghyeon’s smile broadened, warm and dazzling. “Okay.”

They stood together beneath the glowing streetlights of the quiet neighborhood—two boys who had already lost an entire universe of love once, standing on the precipice of a brand-new reality.

Meeting again for the very first time.

And this time, neither of them knew how the story would play out. There were no scripts, no erased histories to dictate their path, and no past obligations holding them together.

Maybe that was the beautiful, miraculous point of it all.

For the first time since the world had broken, they weren't desperately chasing the ghosts of their past.

They were choosing each other for the future.

🕸️

Three months passed in a blur of quiet, steady days, and Seonghyeon still couldn’t remember.

Not everything, anyway.

There were brief, fleeting moments that slipped through the cracks of his mind like sand. A sudden, heavy afternoon downpour that would make his chest ache with an unexplainable, phantom nostalgia. A tiny, brightly lit convenience store two blocks off campus that felt so strangely familiar he would freeze in the doorway. A low, melancholy song playing through his headphones that he couldn’t listen to without feeling like he had forgotten something monumentally important.

Sometimes, when Keonho laughed—a bright, unrestrained sound that filled whatever room they were in—Seonghyeon would get the faintest, sharpest sense of déjà vu, as if he had heard that exact laugh a thousand times in a hundred different places.

But the lost memories never came back in full force. The dark void remained largely intact.

And eventually, Seonghyeon simply stopped waiting for them.

He didn’t need to dig through the graveyard of his mind anymore, because he had something infinitely better sitting right in front of him.

He had Keonho.

The Keonho he knew now.

The person who whined dramatically whenever Seonghyeon stole fried chicken off his plate. The person who, without fail, kept an extra umbrella stuffed into his backpack because Seonghyeon inevitably forgot his own at the first sign of grey clouds. The person who sent him a brief text message every single morning at eight o'clock reminding him to eat breakfast.

The person who still disappeared without warning at the most bizarre, inconvenient hours because he was, unfortunately, the city's one and only Spider-Man.

And, above all else, the person who always came back to him.

To Seonghyeon, that mattered more than a thousand restored memories ever could.

“You’re late,” Seonghyeon said, not even looking up from his phone as the subtle sound of sneakers landing softly on the concrete echoed behind him.

Keonho pulled off his mask, letting the night breeze catch his messy, damp hair, and looked at him with an amused smirk. “You’ve literally said that exact same sentence every single time I’ve seen you this week.”

“Because you’re late every single time,” Seonghyeon pointed out, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket and turning around. “We said nine o'clock. It's almost nine-thirty.”

“I was working!” Keonho protested defensively, holding up his hands.

“Doing what?”

“Important things.”

“Saving the city from another rogue crane or a reckless driver?”

Keonho’s lip twitched into a sheepish grin. “...Maybe.”

Seonghyeon couldn't help the warm smile that broke across his face. “Show-off.”

Keonho let out a quiet laugh, stepping over the roof's air-conditioning units and sitting down on the raised concrete ledge right beside Seonghyeon.

They were sitting on the roof of their favorite high-rise building near the river—the place where the city skyline stretched out in an endless, glittering horizon. Over the past three months, Seonghyeon had gotten remarkably used to rooftops. He had gotten used to the high, biting cold of the wind. He had gotten used to watching Keonho pull on a red mask and vault off the edge into the black night.

He had gotten used to waiting.

At first, Seonghyeon had hated it. In those early weeks, every single time Keonho left to respond to a police siren, Seonghyeon’s stomach would twist into an agonizing knot of pure terror. He would sit by his window, staring at the empty sky, consumed by the horrifying reality of what Keonho was fighting out there in the dark.

Then, over time, he had learned something fundamental.

No matter how dangerous the fight was, no matter how bruised or exhausted he returned, Keonho always came back.

So Seonghyeon stopped panicking. He simply waited.

Tonight, the bustling metropolis below them was unusually quiet, the distant hum of traffic reduced to a low, soothing rhythm. The cool night air carried the crisp scent of coming autumn. Seonghyeon shifted closer, leaning his head sideways to rest his cheek against Keonho’s shoulder.

“You know...” Seonghyeon murmured softly.

“Hm?” Keonho tilted his head slightly, leaning back into the contact.

“I think I finally understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you like being Spider-Man,” Seonghyeon said, watching the yellow headlights of cars crawl along the bridge below. “Why you keep doing it, even when you're exhausted.”

Keonho turned his head to look down at him, his dark eyes curious. “Why?”

“Because you get to save people,” Seonghyeon answered gently. “Because you genuinely care about strangers who have nobody else to stand up for them.”

Keonho looked back out toward the shimmering river, a thoughtful, quiet expression taking over his features. “That’s definitely part of it,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

“What else?”

Keonho paused, his fingers absently tracing the fabric of his suit folded beside him. “When I’m up there... swinging through the sky, high above everything...” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words to describe a feeling he’d carried alone for months. “I feel like I actually belong somewhere. Like I have a purpose, even if no one knows who I am.”

Seonghyeon was quiet for a long moment, listening to the vulnerability in Keonho’s voice.

Slowly, deliberately, Seonghyeon reached down and slid his fingers into Keonho’s warm hand, lacing their fingers tightly together.

“You belong here too,” Seonghyeon whispered firmly.

Keonho turned back, staring at him. “Here?”

“With me,” Seonghyeon said, looking him dead in the eye with absolute, unwavering truth. “On the ground. Just as Keonho.”

A breathtakingly soft, radiant smile slowly spread across Keonho’s face. The tension drained from his shoulders, and he squeezed Seonghyeon’s hand back with incredible tenderness.

“Yeah,” Keonho murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I know.”

Sometimes, as they sat together in quiet cafés or strolled through the university campus, Seonghyeon would still ask little questions about their past.

He didn't ask out of a desperate desire to replace his present life, nor was he searching for a lost identity. He was simply curious, like a listener captivated by a beautiful story about two people he cared about.

“What was our actual first date?” Seonghyeon asked one afternoon, leaning his chin on his palm as they sat across from each other in a dimly lit coffee shop.

Keonho paused, a cup of tea halfway to his mouth, thinking back. “Technically?”

“Yes. Officially, in your memory.”

“We went to a massive secondhand bookstore down in Hongdae,” Keonho said, a faint smirk forming.

Seonghyeon blinked, frowning slightly. “A bookstore? That’s not a date. That’s an errand.”

“It was definitely a date,” Keonho insisted, setting his cup down. “We spent three hours sitting on the floor in the art section.”

“Did you buy me anything?”

“I bought you a leather bookmark.”

“Wait,” Seonghyeon narrowed his eyes playfully. “You didn't buy that bookmark. I remember you telling me last week that you found it on a clearance table!”

“I borrowed it from the universe!” Keonho defended himself with a grin.

“You stole it!” Seonghyeon laughed out loud. “And you still have it, don't you?”

Keonho quickly looked away toward the café window, his cheeks flushing slightly. “...Maybe. It’s in my desk drawer.”

Seonghyeon let out a bright, joyful laugh, shaking his head. “You are absolutely terrible.”

“Hey, you were the one who insisted on knowing!”

“I did,” Seonghyeon admitted softly, his laughter settling into a fond, gentle glow.

He leaned across the small wooden table and rested his head lightly against Keonho’s shoulder, smelling the crisp, clean scent of his laundry detergent.

“Tell me another one,” Seonghyeon asked quietly.

Keonho’s smile softened into pure warmth. He reached up, lightly ruffling the top of Seonghyeon’s hair. “You used to fall asleep halfway through every single movie we watched at my place.”

“I still do that,” Seonghyeon pointed out cheerfully.

“You used to constantly steal my favorite hoodies and refuse to give them back.”

“I still do that too.”

Keonho pointed a finger down at the oversized navy-blue sweatshirt Seonghyeon was currently wearing. “You are literally wearing my favorite one right now.”

Seonghyeon looked down at the giant sleeves engulfing his hands, blinking in mock surprise. “Oh. Look at that.”

Keonho burst into laughter, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “You’re completely impossible.”

“You love me,” Seonghyeon said softly.

The three words slipped out of Seonghyeon’s mouth completely naturally, without a single second of hesitation, floating into the quiet air between them.

Neither of them moved. The ambient chatter of the café seemed to fade into the background.

Seonghyeon lifted his head off Keonho’s shoulder, looking up into his eyes.

Keonho stared back at him, caught entirely off guard, his dark eyes wide and brilliant.

Then, a slow, overwhelmingly beautiful smile spread across Keonho’s lips. He leaned in and gently bumped his shoulder against Seonghyeon’s.

“Yeah,” Keonho whispered softly, his voice full of an affection so deep it threatened to spill over. “I really do.”

A week later, Seonghyeon was deep cleaning his bedroom, attempting to organize a terrifying stack of architecture textbooks that had accumulated in the corner. As he pulled a heavy, dusty reference volume off the top shelf, a small slip of glossy paper slid out from between the pages and fluttered down onto the wooden floorboards.

Seonghyeon crouched down and picked it up.

It was the photograph.

He sat back against the side of his bed, holding the glossy print in his hands, staring at the teenage versions of himself and Keonho standing side by side under the blooming cherry blossom trees.

For a long time, he just stared at their faces—at his own bright, forgotten smile, and at the fierce, protective way Keonho’s arm was draped over his shoulders.

And as he looked at it, Seonghyeon realized he didn't feel that cold, hollow ache in his chest anymore. He didn't feel the bitter envy toward the boy in the picture that had plagued him months ago.

He understood something clearly now.

This photograph wasn't a painful reminder of a life he had failed to reclaim. It wasn't proof that he needed to force himself to become the ghost from his past. It was simply proof that he had already been deeply, wildly happy once.

And somehow, against all mathematical odds, in a universe that had tried its absolute best to erase them, he had found that exact same happiness all over again.

It was different now, built on new conversations, new jokes, and new scars. But it was entirely, undeniably real.

Seonghyeon flipped the small photograph over in his hands. The neat black ink on the back was still perfectly legible:

To Keonho. Don’t lose this, you idiot.

Seonghyeon let out a soft, breathy chuckle, a peaceful smile touching his lips.

“I guess you didn’t,” he whispered into the quiet room.

That same evening, Seonghyeon walked over to Keonho’s apartment complex, carrying two heavy plastic bags of takeout container boxes.

He knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, Keonho pulled it open. He was wearing an old grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower.

Keonho blinked in surprise. “You didn’t tell me you were coming over tonight.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Seonghyeon said, pushing past him into the hallway and holding up the bags. “And I brought actual food, so you don't have to eat dry cereal for dinner.”

Keonho’s face instantly lit up. “You are an absolute angel. Come in.”

They sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the living room, spreading the plastic containers out on a newspaper because Keonho still hadn’t gotten around to buying a proper dining table.

As Seonghyeon snapped his wooden chopsticks apart, he looked around the small apartment. The space was still remarkably sparse—a few boxes lined the hallway, and the walls were mostly bare.

“Your place is still so empty,” Seonghyeon noted, chewing on a piece of marinated beef. “It’s been months.”

“I don’t really need much,” Keonho shrugged, picking up his rice bowl. “I’m barely here during the day anyway.”

“You need basic human furniture,” Seonghyeon argued playfully. “A table. Maybe a second chair.”

“I have furniture!” Keonho defended himself, gesturing proudly toward the wall. “I have a perfectly good couch!”

“Keonho, one couch and a mattress on the floor does not constitute a fully furnished apartment.”

“Technically, by definition it is furnished,” Keonho insisted with a grin.

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes dramatically, letting out a heavy sigh, but as he turned his head, his gaze caught on something sitting on the top shelf of the small wooden bookshelf in the corner.

It was the second copy of the photograph—the one Keonho had kept in his wallet through every dimension and reset. It sat proudly in a simple, inexpensive wooden frame, placed right in the center of the shelf.

Seonghyeon pushed himself up off the floor, walked over to the bookshelf, and carefully picked up the frame, staring at it.

“You still keep this right out in the open?” Seonghyeon asked quietly, turning back to face him.

Keonho paused, setting his chopsticks down on his bowl, and looked at the frame in Seonghyeon’s hands. “Yeah.”

“Why?” Seonghyeon asked gently. “Doesn't it make you sad?”

Keonho thought about it for a quiet moment, his dark eyes softening as he looked at the print.

“Because it happened,” Keonho said simply, his voice steady and calm.

Seonghyeon tilted his head. “What?”

“That entire life,” Keonho explained, a small, beautiful smile gracing his face. “Those two years we had before the spell. The trips, the dates, the high school days... it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a mistake. It was real. And keeping that photo there reminds me that every single second of it was worth suffering through the silence.”

Seonghyeon stood there in the quiet apartment, looking from the photograph to the boy sitting on the floor in front of him.

Slowly, Seonghyeon placed the wooden frame back onto the shelf, right where it belonged.

“It still is,” Seonghyeon murmured softly.

Keonho looked up at him, his dark eyes searching Seonghyeon’s face.

Seonghyeon offered him a warm, radiant smile. “It’s still real, Keonho. Just a little different now.”

Later that night, long after the food had been cleared away, Keonho stood silently by the tall living room window, looking out at the sprawling neon grid of Seoul beneath the dark sky.

Behind him, Seonghyeon was fast asleep on the couch, curled up under a thick wool blanket. He had fallen asleep halfway through the second act of an action movie they had started watching.

Again.

Keonho turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Seonghyeon’s peaceful, sleeping face. A quiet, soft laugh escaped Keonho’s chest.

Some things really never change, he thought to himself.

Keonho turned back to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass.

He remembered, with striking, terrifying clarity, what it had felt like in the immediate days following the erased reality. The suffocating, absolute silence of the world. The empty apartment that felt like a tomb. The tragic, solitary weight of holding a photograph that nobody else recognized. The soul-crushing horror of realizing that every memory of his existence had been ripped from the minds of the people he loved most.

For a very long time, Keonho had desperately believed that being remembered was the only thing that could ever give his past meaning—that if Seonghyeon didn't remember him, their love had been rendered completely meaningless.

Now, standing in the quiet of his apartment, Keonho finally knew better.

His memories were still his. They were real, immortalized in his heart. The years he had spent with Seonghyeon had happened. The loud, chaotic laughter had happened. The stupid arguments over food had happened. The quiet, late-night conversations under the stars. The nervous, magical first kiss on the riverbank. The very first time they had whispered "I love you" into the dark.

All of it had happened. It was a part of his soul, and no spell or cosmic reset could ever take that away from him, even if nobody else in the world remembered it.

And now—here in this new world—he had something entirely new, fragile, and beautiful.

Keonho looked back over his shoulder once more. Seonghyeon shifted slightly in his sleep, pulling the blanket higher up around his shoulders, his face entirely relaxed and at peace.

Keonho smiled, a tear of pure, profound gratitude trailing down his cheek.

He didn't need Seonghyeon to remember the past anymore. He didn't need the old memories to return.

He just needed Seonghyeon to stay right here, by his side.

Seonghyeon woke up slowly to the faint, crisp sound of the balcony window sliding open.

He blinked against the dim light, rubbing his eyes groggily as he sat up on the couch. “Keonho?”

There was no verbal answer, only the subtle rustle of fabric in the night wind.

Seonghyeon threw the blanket off his legs, stood up, and walked over to the open window. He leaned out into the cool midnight air, looking up toward the sky.

A red-and-blue figure was already soaring gracefully through the air three stories above, swinging off the edge of a commercial building with incredible speed and agility.

Spider-Man.

Seonghyeon couldn't help the warm, proud smile that bloomed across his face. He leaned out the window frame and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey! Be careful out there!” Seonghyeon shouted up into the night.

High above the avenue, Spider-Man paused mid-swing, turning his head back toward the apartment building. He did a sharp, playful mid-air flip, offered a quick, enthusiastic wave with his free hand, and then shot another web line, disappearing into the glittering sea of the city skyline.

Seonghyeon stepped back inside and closed the glass window, cutting off the sharp bite of the wind.

For a long, quiet moment, he stood motionless in the center of the living room.

Then—without warning—something sharp and sudden flashed through his mind like a strike of lightning.

Rain pouring heavily from a dark sky...

The rusted metal railing of a high school rooftop...

Two boys sitting close together under a shared jacket...

A warm, strong hand holding his tightly...

A quiet, fierce voice whispering into his ear:

“I’ll always come back to you. I promise.”

Seonghyeon froze in place, his breath catching sharply in his throat. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs as the vivid, emotional echo vibrated through his entire body.

And then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the memory dissolved, slipping back into the dark depths of his subconscious before he could grasp the specific details.

But this time, Seonghyeon didn't panic. He didn't desperately try to chase the faded image or force his brain to reclaim the missing pieces. He simply stood there in the quiet apartment, a soft, profound smile spreading across his face because deep down in his soul, he knew exactly what that flash meant.

He didn't need the exact timeline or the specific words restored to his brain. He knew the truth of it because he was living it all over again, right here, right now.

High above the glowing grid of Seoul, Keonho swung through the cold night air, his body moving in perfect harmony with the momentum of his webs.

Suddenly, his spider-sense gave a tiny, subtle buzz at the back of his neck—not a warning of danger, but a warm, reassuring pulse that echoed through his veins.

Keonho grinned brightly beneath his mask.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his grip on the web line. “Let’s go.”

The vast, beautiful city waited beneath him in all its chaotic, living glory.

He knew that as long as he wore this mask, there would always be someone out there who needed saving. There would always be a runaway car to stop, an alleyway robbery to prevent, or a scared kid having the absolute worst day of their life who needed a hero to drop down from the sky.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, Keonho would still have dark, exhausting days too. He would still occasionally miss the simple, ordinary life he had lost. He would still carry the quiet weight of the people who had forgotten his name.

But as he shot another web line and launched himself toward the stars, Keonho knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He was not alone anymore.

He had Seonghyeon.

Not the Seonghyeon bound to the erased memories of his past. Not the boy locked inside the old photograph. Not the person who had loved him in a world that no longer existed.

But the person who had met him in the rain, looked into his eyes without knowing his history, and chosen him all over again.

To Keonho, that was enough.

It was more than enough. It was everything.

🕸️

The low rumble of the washing machine vibrated through the floorboards of the kitchen, competing with the quiet sizzle of a pan on the stove.

“Hello, I'm Spider-Man!”

Seonghyeon paused mid-chop, his knife hovering an inch above a block of tofu as he looked over his shoulder at the small dining nook.

Keonho was standing in front of the hallway mirror, wearing faded grey sweatpants and a worn, oversized hoodie—though the red Spider-Man mask was pulled fully over his head, contrasting wildly with his domestic attire. He was holding a plastic spatula like a microphone, puffing out his chest in a heroic pose.

Seonghyeon blinked at him, wiping a stray strand of hair from his forehead with the back of his wrist. “What on earth are you doing right now?”

“Nothing!” Keonho said quickly, dropping his arms and hiding the spatula behind his back.

“You’ve literally been standing in front of the mirror talking to your own reflection while I cut the vegetables for dinner.”

“I’m practicing!” Keonho insisted, gesturing defensively with the spatula.

“Practicing for what? A superhero union meeting?”

Keonho shrugged, his voice coming out muffled through the thick red fabric of the mask. “My official Spider-Man introduction speech. In case I ever have to make a dramatic announcement to the neighborhood.”

Seonghyeon burst into a fit of laughter, grabbing a folded kitchen towel from the counter. “You are ridiculously embarrassing.”

Keonho dramatically pointed the spatula right at Seonghyeon, dropping his voice into a deep, theatrical hero cadence that echoed softly off the kitchen tiles.

“I was bitten by a radioactive spider!”

“I know,” Seonghyeon said, shaking his head with a thoroughly amused grin. “You remind me every time you move the couch by yourself.”

“I became the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!”

“I am well aware.”

“My solemn, noble duty is to protect the city and make sure the soup doesn't burn!”

“Yes, yes, very brave,” Seonghyeon teased, leaning back against the counter.

Keonho dramatically placed his free hand on his hip, striking a classic comic-book pose right next to the dining table. “And my current roommate and boyfriend happens to be a brilliant, incredibly cute student who—”

Before Keonho could finish his sentence, Seonghyeon lightly whipped the damp kitchen towel straight at his face.

Keonho’s reflexes kicked in instantly. Without dropping the spatula, he casually snatched the towel out of the air mid-flight with his left hand, letting out a bright, muffled laugh from beneath the mask.

“Go!” Seonghyeon laughed, pointing toward the hallway with his wooden spoon. “The laundry cycle just finished! Put the towels in the dryer before patrol!”

Keonho tossed the damp towel gently back onto the counter and set the spatula beside the cutting board. Instead of immediately heading for the laundry, he reached up, hooked two fingers under the hem of his red mask, and pulled it up past his nose, letting it gather at the bridge of his forehead.

He stepped into Seonghyeon’s space, resting his hands lightly on Seonghyeon’s waist. Before Seonghyeon could make another teasing remark about the dinner prep, Keonho leaned in and captured his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It tasted faintly of mint tea and carried the warm, cozy heat of the kitchen around them.

Seonghyeon let out a soft breath, his hands naturally coming up to rest against Keonho’s forearm, leaning into the warmth.

When Keonho finally pulled back an inch, his dark eyes were bright with an affectionate, lopsided grin, his thumb lightly stroking Seonghyeon’s hip.

“Love you,” Keonho murmured, his voice soft and grounded against the quiet hum of the apartment.

Seonghyeon’s smile broadened, warm and utterly radiant as he nudged Keonho’s shoulder. “Love you too, 'Pidey. Now go do the chores.”

Keonho pulled the mask up over his nose, revealing a broad, breathtakingly happy smile, before heading down the hall to the utility room.

Nobody in the city outside knew the real identity of the boy who swung across their rooftops every night. Nobody needed to.

Because right here, amidst the quiet hum of a small apartment, the warm steam of a home-cooked meal, and a basket of fresh laundry, there was one person making sure he always had a home to return to.

And this time—

he wasn’t forgotten.

He was loved.

Again.