Let's reach 250 Power Stones for an extra chapter
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-Gwen-
My bedroom is my sanctuary. Books line the shelves, overflowing with everything from classic literature to dense scientific journals. My desk, usually a chaotic mess of papers and half-finished projects, is surprisingly tidy tonight. I'm trying to focus on my AP Physics homework, but my mind keeps drifting back to Ethan.
He's been acting weird lately, distant and preoccupied. I know he's dealing with something, but he won't confide in me. And that whole "Digimon" situation is weird.
Ugh, focus, Gwen! You have a test tomorrow. I push thoughts of Ethan aside and try to concentrate on the textbook in front of me.
Suddenly, a strange sensation washes over me, a feeling of being watched. It's like someone is staring at me, boring a hole through the back of my head. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel a prickling awareness all over my skin.
Okay, that's creepy. I try to dismiss it as my imagination running wild, fueled by too much coffee and late-night studying. But the feeling persists, growing stronger with each passing moment.
Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from my books and look up, my eyes drawn to the window. The curtains are slightly parted, allowing a sliver of moonlight to spill into the room.
And that's when I see her.
Standing outside my window, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon, is the same fox-like Digimon I saw under the streetlamp that night. Her elegant form is silhouetted against the darkness, and her icy blue eyes are fixed on me.
My heart leaps into my throat, a mix of surprise and slight apprehension coursing through me. What is she doing here? Is she dangerous?
But beneath the fear, there's a flicker of recognition, a strange sense of familiarity. I feel a pull towards her, an inexplicable connection that I can't quite explain.
I cautiously approach the window, my hand hovering over the latch. "Hello?" I call out softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
She doesn't flinch or react in any way. She continues to stare at me, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she finally speaks, her voice surprisingly calm and collected. "I am merely passing by."
Her words are simple, but they do little to ease my curiosity. What is she really doing here? Why is she watching me?
"What's your name?" I ask, my voice a little steadier now. "If you don't mind me asking."
She hesitates, a hint of reluctance in her eyes. "Renamon," she says, her voice barely audible. It's like she's sharing a secret, something she doesn't readily reveal.
"Renamon," I repeat, testing the name on my tongue. "That's a beautiful name."
I pause, gathering my courage. "Would you like to come inside? I could make you some tea, or maybe some cookies?"
Renamon's eyes widen slightly, but she quickly regains her composure. "That is kind of you, but I must decline. I cannot stay long."
Why not? What's the rush? I want to ask her more questions, to understand why she's here, but I sense that she's already preparing to leave.
Acting on impulse, I turn away from the window and rush to my desk. I rummage through my snack drawer, grabbing a bag of cookies, a granola bar, and an apple.
I hurry back to the window, holding out the snacks. "Here," I say, offering them to Renamon. "Take these. I know it's not much, but I want to help."
Renamon hesitates, her eyes flicking between me and the snacks. After a moment, she reaches out and takes the bag, her fingers brushing against mine. There's a hint of gratitude in her eyes, a flicker of warmth that melts my apprehension.
"Thank you," she says softly, her voice barely audible.
Without another word, she turns and disappears into the shadows, her elegant form swallowed by the darkness.
I stand there for a moment, watching the spot where she vanished, a small smile playing on my lips. I feel a sense of satisfaction, a sense of having done something good.
But as I turn to go back inside, I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this encounter than meets the eye.
Renamon glance back with a troubled expression. "Why do I feel such a strong connection to this human?"
…
Peter bursts through the front door of the small house in Queens, a hopeful grin plastered on his face. In his hands, he clutches a thick wad of cash, enough to finally ease the worry lines etched onto Aunt May's face and maybe even fix the leaky roof that had been plaguing them for months.
For the past week, Peter had been secretly entering underground wrestling matches, donning a mask and calling himself Spider-Man. He thought it was the perfect solution, a way to use his newfound abilities to provide for Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
"Aunt May, Uncle Ben, I'm home!" he calls out, his voice brimming with excitement. He finds them in the living room, Aunt May knitting by the dim light of a table lamp, and Uncle Ben tinkering with a broken radio.
"Peter, dear, you're back late," Aunt May says, her brow furrowing slightly. "Everything alright?"
"Never better!" Peter exclaims, waving the cash in the air. "Look what I got! I can help with the bills this month!"
Uncle Ben sets down his tools, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Where did you get that kind of money, Peter? You haven't been doing anything foolish, have you?"
Peter's smile falters slightly, but he pushes on. "It's nothing like that, Uncle Ben, I promise. I just... I found a way to make some quick cash, that's all."
"Quick cash?" Aunt May repeats, her voice laced with concern. "Peter, we don't want you getting mixed up in anything shady. Where did this come from?"
"I can't tell you," Peter says, his voice hardening slightly. "Just know that it's honest work, and it's going to help us out."
"If you can't tell us, then it can't be good," Uncle Ben says sternly. "Peter, we appreciate the thought, but we're not taking that money."
"What? Why not?" Peter asks, his voice rising in frustration. "I'm trying to help! We need this money!"
"We'll manage, like we always do," Aunt May says gently, but her resolve is clear. "We're not going to accept money if we don't know where it came from. Peter, you need to take that back, wherever you got it. Tell them you can't do it anymore."
"You don't understand!" Peter explodes, his pent-up anger finally boiling over. "I'm doing this for you! I'm sick of seeing you struggle! I'm trying to be responsible!"
"And we appreciate that, Peter, but not like this," Uncle Ben says, his voice firm but laced with disappointment. "There are things more important than money. Like honesty, and integrity."
Peter feels a surge of resentment, a burning anger that he can't control. He's been risking his neck, fighting masked goons in dingy basements, all for them. And they're rejecting it, throwing his efforts back in his face.
"Fine!" he snaps, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you don't want my help, then I won't bother!"
He slams the stack of cash on the table, turns on his heel, and storms out of the house, leaving Aunt May and Uncle Ben staring after him, their faces etched with worry and regret. The door slams shut with a resounding thud.
***
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