Sunday morning sunlight poured through the blinds of Felicia's modest apartment. It was almost noon when she rolled out of bed, stretching languidly as if her body hadn't quite caught up with the jetlag from her recent trip. It wasn't too bad, but she didn't like waking up midday.
Nevertheless, it was nice to sleep in. No alarms. No heists. No one was chasing her for a botched job or stolen jewel. Just quiet.
A soft knock pulled her from half-sleep. She padded to the door, cautious even in comfort. She opened the door cautiously and found a small courier envelope sitting neatly on her welcome mat.
Felicia narrowed her eyes, scanned the hallway for signs of a tail, then bent and picked it up. No logo. No tracking slip. Just a courier stamp from a downtown office. She shut the door, took it to the kitchen counter, and slit it open.
Inside: two labeled key sets, one labeled "Laundromat," the other "Harper Residence," a folded deed, and a brief notarized letter from a real estate attorney. The house on the deed was listed at $320,000—paid in full under the name Felicia Harper.
Felicia blinked.
"Fast little bastard," she murmured with a small grin, her thoughts drifting to Ethan. She didn't expect the real estate deal to be complete for another few weeks. A house? A business front? A verified trail?
She tapped the keyring against her palm. The thing about gifted minds like Ethan's was that you never really knew what they were capable of. The real danger was assuming they had limits.
Well. No sense wasting a perfectly good Sunday.
By early afternoon, Felicia found herself in front of the modest brownstone listed as her new residence. It was tucked on a quiet street in Brooklyn, shaded by tall oaks, half-gentrified but not pretentious. She used the Harper key and stepped inside.
The place was untouched, still echoing with the scent of fresh paint and dry air. Hardwood floors gleamed in the filtered sunlight. The kitchen was outdated, but functional. There were three bedrooms upstairs, a half-finished basement, and just enough warmth in the design to feel like a home—if she ever decided to truly settle.
Her boots echoed as she walked from room to room.
"This could be real," she whispered to herself. Her voice was steady, but her pulse wasn't.
She'd built identities before. Dozens. Used names, forged documents, bribed officials. But they were always fragile—cracked at the edges, rushed and temporary. One phone call could unravel the whole thing. One nosy government audit, and she'd be outed.
But this? This was different. This was invisible in plain sight.
She locked up, hopped in a cab, and headed to her next stop—the bank listed in Ethan's dossier as her "primary financial institution."
The building was a sturdy branch on Flatbush Avenue, all polished brass fixtures and marble floors. She had just come to withdraw some money to see if the bank account was legit, but to her surprise, the bank was open. The moment she walked in, the receptionist at the desk gave her a polite nod.
"Ah, good afternoon, Miss Harper. We were informed you'd visit us today, so we opened specially for you. You've never come here before. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Felicia's eyebrow twitched—but she smiled smoothly.
"Yes, it's nice to meet you too."
"We actually updated your signature files last year. We also have your new card ready. May I ask what brings you in today?"
"I'd like to review my account and open a savings account, if that's alright."
"Of course. Please, follow me, Ma'am."
The manager didn't question her. Didn't blink when she presented her license or signed on a digital pad. She was walked into a private room and shown her checking account, currently holding $60,000. She was then handed the debit card connected to the account.
Everything was flawless. The account showed ten years of low-level activity: utilities paid, small online purchases, even an old gym membership, and a sporadic history of transfers from two other banks. The paper trail was deep, organic, and foolproof.
Felicia kept her expression calm, even though her thoughts were screaming.
'How the hell did he fake ten years of financial history? This isn't just a hack. These are systems that are updated yearly. Tax records, deposit schedules, and even flagged ATM withdrawals. No identity thief or forger could've done this. Not even me.'
She opened a savings account with a charming nod, then left, stopping briefly at the two other banks tied to the Harper persona. Not to her surprise, they were also open and expecting her. One account held $34,000, the other $47,000. All funds traceable, all histories consistent.
Felicia exited the last bank and leaned against the wall outside, letting the weight of it all settle.
For the first time in years, she felt… untethered.
Not from danger. Not from debt. But from her own past. Felicia Hardy was a legacy of crime and manipulation. Felicia Harper could be something else. Something clean.
And that terrified her.
Felicia didn't return to the brownstone. Instead, she took the subway back to her temporary apartment. The city rolled by like a blur beyond the smudged train windows—steel gray, red brick, and deep shadow. The whole ride, she sat quiet, fingers idly playing with the RFID card Ethan had given her.
It felt heavier than it should.
He'd built her an identity that could survive a CIA-level investigation.
A digital phantom with more reality than her actual life.
Back in her apartment, she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and dropped the manila envelope of documents on her couch. One by one, she laid them out—birth certificate, driver's license, social security card, and bank statements. All perfectly aged, stamped, scanned, and system-verified. She even tested the card again.
Felicia stared at them like they were relics of someone else's life. But they weren't.
They were hers now.
She dropped onto the couch, kicking her boots off, and exhaled.
"How old are you, Ethan?" she muttered aloud. "Fifteen? Sixteen?"
No one that young should have this kind of skill.
Sure, she'd worked with hackers before. Black market tech specialists. Identity forgers. People who claimed to be ghosts in the system. Some were young, of course, but not that young. Most of them were messy. Loud. Too proud of their own tricks.
Ethan wasn't like them.
He didn't act like someone trying to prove anything.
He just did the work. Better and faster than anyone she'd ever met.
She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling.
He hadn't even blinked when asking for the Venom sample trade. There was no fear in his voice, no hesitation. Like he'd already anticipated every move she might make. Like he was playing four moves ahead, without even pretending it was a game.
That's what scared her most.
Felicia Hardy had spent her whole life reading people—manipulating, seducing, surviving. But Ethan?
He didn't give off tells. Not like most.
He was already becoming someone dangerous.
And that meant she needed to decide—now—what her role was in this unfolding relationship.
Friend? Partner? Asset?
Or threat?
Felicia shook the thoughts off and grabbed a glass of water, sipping it slowly while her mind re-centered.
Maybe she was overthinking it. Ethan was still a teenager. Brilliant, sure. But still a boy. Boys were easy to understand and deal with.
And yet...
She looked down at the blueprints he'd sent over—renovation layouts for the laundromat, disguised utilities, passive surveillance nests, and an underground space with enough wiring to suggest a generator plus a backup to stay completely off the grid.
This wasn't just any normal hideout. Unless followed, no one could come across it. It was a masterful design that could be replicated anywhere if done skillfully enough.
Felicia stood, paced, and stopped at the window, watching the sun sink beneath the rooftops of Brooklyn. She could walk away if things ever got too dangerous. Leave everything—just vanish. She was good at that.
But she didn't want to—not this time.
Sure, there was danger in the costumed life she and Spider chose, but there was also thrill and excitement. She could never see herself with Peter Parker raising a family, but a life of cat and mouse with Spiderman, that she would sign up for every day.
And Ethan…
If he could build something this strong in a week, what would he be capable of in a year?
She still didn't trust him. Not fully.
But she trusted his talent.
And in her world, that was often the closest thing to loyalty.
Felicia sat back down, pulled out her phone, and opened the encrypted channel Ethan had given her.
Harper: "Your laundry blueprints are a bit ambitious. I have questions."
Harper: "And a few requests."
Harper: "Let's meet before tomorrow's rendezvous with the spider."
She hesitated for a moment before sending it. Then tapped 'Send.'
A moment later, the reply came through:
Rourke: "Name the time. I'm always available to help out a friend."
Felicia smirked, closed the channel, and leaned back.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.