Spider-Max

Richard lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts tangled in a mess of regret and exhaustion. His mind replayed everything that had happened in the last 24 hours—the warehouse, the murders, Raven, the PTRD taking over.

He still hadn't fully processed it.

Thud. Thud.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairs, slow and deliberate.

Richard tensed, his body instinctively alert. The past few days had made him paranoid—every noise felt like something dangerous lurking in the shadows.

The doorknob turned, and George stepped in, his face as unreadable as ever.

"How many days is the school shut down?" George asked, arms crossed.

Richard exhaled, letting his shoulders relax. "Three. Two murders in one day kinda freaks people out, you know?"

George nodded like he expected the answer. Then, in a flat tone, he said, "You better not try to sneak out looking for Raven."

Richard blinked. "What?"

George leaned against the doorframe. "I put up an alarm barrier across the house. The second you try to step out, I'll know."

Richard sat up, his brows furrowing. "Are you serious?"

George smirked. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

No, he didn't.

Richard swallowed. George wasn't just being protective—he was genuinely worried. And if George, a veteran exorcist, was worried, that meant the situation was even worse than Richard had thought.

Before Richard could respond, George straightened up. "I have some business to take care of."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "You mean with the PTRD?"

George didn't answer. He just turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

Richard sat there, feeling trapped. The way George said "business" made it clear that he wasn't just going out to get groceries. He was probably going to hunt Raven down himself.

For a moment, Richard considered testing the so-called alarm barrier—but something told him George wasn't bluffing.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. Locked in his own house, powerless to do anything. This was just perfect.

Still, there was one thing he could do.

He swung his legs over the bed and sat at his desk, booting up his computer. His phone was still dead, and he hadn't bothered fixing it yet. Might as well see what's happening online.

The soft hum of the computer filled the room as Richard leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the screen. His phone was dead, but the internet was still his lifeline.

He logged into his social media. His inbox was a mess—hundreds of unread messages, but one name stood out.

Owen.

The first message was simple.

Hey fucker, what happened to your phn?

Then another.

Dude? Reply??

Fucker.

Tucker.

Bunker?

Richard exhaled through his nose. Of course, Owen would start typing out random words just to mess with him.

Oh c'mon, man. Not cool.

That was the last message. Sent yesterday.

Richard felt a small pang of guilt. Owen must have been worried.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type a response—but then his eyes drifted lower, and he saw another name.

Emma.

Unlike Owen, she hadn't spammed him with messages.

She hadn't sent anything at all.

Richard clicked on her chat, staring at the empty message box. Why was that somehow worse?

His stomach twisted. She had come to him for help. She remembered Jackson. Barely, but she remembered. And instead of listening, instead of helping her, he pushed her away.

He leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands. What was he supposed to do?

He barely understood any of this supernatural shit himself. He was still figuring it out. He wasn't some mentor. He wasn't like Max or George.

But that wasn't an excuse.

Emma had been struggling. And he abandoned her.

Richard clicked out of the chat, unable to look at it any longer. His chest felt heavy.

The glowing screen cast a pale light over the room as he checked the news.

Two murders. Two cases that made no goddamn sense.

The Red Floor Incident. A crime scene with blood but no body.

The Dried Corpse Case. A crime scene with a body but no blood.

Richard tapped his fingers against the desk. The media was losing its mind.

Some theories were completely insane.

"Blackridge is cursed."

"A serial killer is harvesting organs."

"Some underground cult is performing blood rituals."

One article, however, stood out.

"What the Police Won't Tell You: Is There a Cover-Up Happening in Blackridge?"

Richard's eyes narrowed as he clicked on it.

The article went into detail about how fast the FBI had taken over the case. How the BRPD had been pushed aside. How, despite the gruesome nature of the crimes, no real updates had been given to the public.

It mentioned a name.

Agent Roger Caldwell Smith.

Richard clenched his jaw. That guy.

Something was wrong. Even people online could feel it. The truth wasn't being told.

His stomach twisted. He should tell George about this, people would obviously find out the truth one day.

Just as he reached for his keyboard—

Knock. Knock.

Richard froze.

Not on the door. On the window.

His breath hitched. The curtain was still down. He couldn't see outside.

He swallowed hard. His paranoia flared, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Was it a spirit?

A ghost?

Something else?

Richard stood up, moving slowly. His fingers brushed against the wooden stick lying beside his bed—for whatever reason, he had always kept it there.

Now, he was glad he did.

Gripping the stick, he approached the window, step by step.

The knocking continued.

His hand hovered over the curtain. He hesitated.

His heart pounded. He braced himself.

Then—he yanked the curtain open.

And immediately wished he hadn't.

Hanging on the window like a total dumbass, clinging to the frame like a thief in the night—

Was Max.

Richard stared.

Max stared back.

Neither of them spoke for a solid five seconds.

Then Richard slowly, very slowly, glanced down at the wooden stick in his hand.

Max's eyes darted to it. His face twisted with panic.

"Wait, wait, wait—chill! It's me!" Max flailed one arm, his grip on the window frame slipping slightly. "Your mentor! Your wise and experienced teacher in the arts of exorcism!"

Richard blinked. "Max. You're literally two years older than me."

"That's two years of knowledge and wisdom you will never catch up to, young padawan."

Richard sighed and rubbed his temples. "How the hell did you even get up here?"

Max grinned. "Climbed."

"You climbed? Like, actually climbed the house?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

Max looked at him like he had just asked why people breathe. "Because the door was locked."

Richard shut his eyes for a moment. "You could have knocked."

"Didn't feel like it."

"You could have called me."

"Your phone's dead."

Richard opened his mouth, then closed it. Fair point.

Max smirked. "Come on, man. Let me in before I fall and crack my skull open. Or don't. Then you'll have to explain to your grandma why I died outside your window like a complete dumbass."

Richard rolled his eyes and unlatched the window, pulling it open. Max immediately swung one leg over the frame, nearly kicking Richard in the face in the process.

"Dude! Watch it!" Richard snapped, stepping back.

"Oops." Max snorted, struggling to squeeze himself inside. "Not my fault your window is the size of a toddler's shoebox."

With one final push, Max tumbled inside, faceplanting onto Richard's floor.

Richard just stood there. "Smooth."

Max groaned, rolling onto his back. "Ugh. I think I broke my everything."

Richard grabbed his chair and sat down. "Good. Now tell me why the hell you're sneaking into my house like some weird stalker."

Max sat up, brushing dust off his shirt. "Well, first off—your hospitality sucks. Second—" He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "We can't just sit here, man. We need to go out and find Raven."

Richard blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Max said. "We can't just wait for the PTRD to handle it. They don't care about justice. They just wanna sweep this whole thing under the rug. That means it's up to us."

Richard shook his head. "Yeah, no. Not happening."

Max frowned. "Why?"

"Because Grandpa literally put an alarm barrier around the house," Richard said flatly. "If I try to leave, he'll know immediately."

Max raised an eyebrow. "An alarm barrier? Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Like… a supernatural alarm barrier?"

"Yes, dumbass. What other kind would Grandpa set up?"

Max whistled. "Damn. That's kinda cool."

"Not for me, it isn't," Richard muttered.

Max grinned, leaning back on his hands. "Well, don't worry about that."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"

Max's smirk widened.

"Because I've got a plan."