The apartment door opened with a soft click.
Yamo slipped inside carefully, easing it shut behind him. The hallway light was already on.
"You know what time it is?"
May Parker stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, robe pulled tight around her shoulders. Her voice wasn't angry—but it wasn't gentle either.
Yamo froze.
"…No," he admitted.
She sighed. "It's almost midnight."
"Oh." He lowered his head immediately. "I'm sorry, Mom. The construction work took longer than expected."
She watched him closely for a moment, irritation giving way to worry. "You should've been home hours ago."
"I know," he said quickly, shoulders dropping, voice obedient and docile in a way that felt almost automatic. "It won't happen again."
May shook her head. "Sit down. You must be starving."
Yamo nodded and went to the table without protest. A few minutes later, she placed a bowl in front of him.
Curry.
Thick and warm, homemade. Potatoes, carrots—and far too many fried hot-dog pieces mixed in, just the way he liked it.
Then a second bowl.
Then a third.
"You don't have to eat everything," she said, even though they both knew he would.
Yamo smiled brightly. "You made it. Of course I will."
He reached into his pocket and carefully placed three hundred dollars on the table.
"They paid extra," he said. "For staying late."
May stopped moving. "…Three hundred?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "Got lucky."
She picked up the money, but her eyes stayed on him instead of the bills.
"You don't need to carry everything on your shoulders," she said quietly. "That's not your job."
Yamo kept eating, nodding along. "I know."
She stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. Yamo looked at her hand. 'I wonder when Mom's beatiful hands became this rough and old'
"Son," she said softly, "I want you to be a kid just a little longer. Let me and your dad worry about money."
He smiled again, wide and convincing. "Okay."
Satisfied—or choosing to be—May turned and headed to her room. "Don't stay up too late. Go to sleep after eating. I will do the dishes tomorrow" she called back.
"I won't." said Yamo. When her door closed, the apartment fell quiet.
Yamo stared at the empty bowl in front of him. The curry sat heavy in his stomach.
He lifted his sleeve and pressed it to his eyes, breathing slowly, silently.
"…The curry tastes bitter today," he whispered.
No one heard him.
Midnight crept closer anyway.
**
Yamo was already fast asleep in his tiny room.
Curled slightly on the narrow mattress, one arm hanging over the edge, he snored softly—an undignified sound for someone who had nearly torn a warehouse apart only hours earlier.
A faint grin rested on his face, the quiet satisfaction of victory lingering even in sleep.
The room was dark. Silent.
23:58
23:59
00:00
A soft hum filled the space.
A translucent blue panel unfolded in front of Yamo's sleeping face, its glow reflecting faintly off the ceiling—visible to him alone, invisible to the world around him.
[System activated]
No sound escaped the panel, yet a calm, synthetic voice echoed directly inside Yamo's mind.
He didn't stir. Didn't react. His breathing remained slow and even.
The panel flickered.
[System Error: User detected in incompatible dimension]
Lines of text rearranged themselves.
[Warning: Primary system functions unavailable]
A pause followed—longer this time.
Then a new prompt appeared, sharper, heavier.
[Do you wish to activate Interdimensional Store in exchange for currently amassed non-native strength?]
□ Yes
□ No
Yamo shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent.
"…Food…"
The checkboxes remained empty.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
[No response detected.]
[Initiating emergency protocol.]
[System A.I. will choose on behalf of the User.]
The □ beside Yes filled in.
[Confirmed.]
The panel collapsed inward, streams of blue data compressing into a single point before sinking into Yamo's chest—unseen, unfelt.
The light vanished and the voice went silent.
***
5:00 a.m.
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—
Two alarms rang at once.
Yamo jerked upright, hair sticking out in every direction, eyes unfocused. In the next room, Peter groaned and slapped his alarm like it had personally betrayed him.
Yamo walked to Peter's room and opened the door. "Five more minutes…" Peter muttered.
"Nope," Yamo replied automatically, already pulling Peter's blanket away. Yamo looked at his hand.
Something felt… off. Not pain. Not weakness. Just a strange sense of emptiness, like something had been moved without asking.
He rubbed his ears. The ringing was still there—but quieter. Duller.
"Did you hear that?" Peter called out. "Hear what?" Yamo asked. "…Exactly," Peter yawned.
Yamo slapped Peter on his back and went to the bathroom.
For just a heartbeat, faint blue text flickered at the edge of his vision—so quick he couldn't focus on it.
Then it was gone. His heart skipped.
'…Okay,' he thought. 'That's new.' Morning light crept through the window.
'Today is the day Petey gets his powers. I'm excited' Yamo smiled brightly.
**
The apartment door closed quietly behind them.
The early morning air hit Yamo's face, cold and sharp, carrying the familiar smells of the city waking up—exhaust, damp concrete, stale bread from a bakery down the street.
Peter stretched as they walked, still half asleep. "I swear, one day I'm not getting up this early."
"You say that every day," Yamo replied automatically.
They reached the bike parked where it always was. Peter climbed onto the trailer, tugging his jacket tighter around himself as Yamo took his place at the handlebars.
"Same route," Peter said, yawning. "Try not to race the buses again."
Yamo smirked faintly and pushed down on the pedal. The bike barely moved.
He frowned and pushed again. Nothing. The chain rattled softly. The front wheel rolled forward a fraction, then stopped.
Peter blinked. "Uh… drive slower today?"
Yamo laughed out of akwardness. "Yeah. Something like that."
He stood on the pedal and pushed harder.
Pain flared instantly through his legs—not the light, familiar burn of exertion, but a sharp, shallow sting, like muscles that had never known real work.
The bike crept forward. Peter chuckled. "Wow. Very funny."
Yamo didn't answer.
His breathing picked up too fast. His thighs trembled with each push. Sweat broke out across his back, soaking through his shirt within seconds.
By the time they reached the first intersection, Yamo had to stop.
He leaned forward on the handlebars, chest heaving. His sides stung, and his body in overdrive trying to breath.
Peter finally looked properly at him. "Dude… are you okay?"
"Yeah," Yamo said quickly. Too quickly. "Just—give me.. a second."
They continued. Slowly. Painfully.
When they finally reached the small newspaper shop, Yamo barely managed to roll the bike to a stop before his legs buckled.
He caught himself against the wall, gasping.
The shop owner looked up and froze. "Kid," he said slowly, "why do you look like you ran here?"
Yamo wiped his face with his sleeve. It came away damp. "Bad sleep."
Peter stared at him. "Since when do you sweat like that?"
The man slid their yesterdays pay and todays the newspaper bundles across the counter, still watching Yamo. "Take it easy today," he said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
Outside, Yamo leaned the bike against the wall again. His hands were shaking.
"…Wait," Yamo muttered. Peter frowned. "What now?"
Yamo grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off and looked at his body. He froze.
His arms were thin. Not lean. Not defined Thin.
The muscle that had always been there—dense, coiled, quietly powerful—were gone. His shoulders looked narrow. His chest flat. His ribs faintly visible beneath pale skin.
His legs—his legs looked like sticks.
Peter's mouth fell open. "…Yamo?"
Yamo stared at himself, heart pounding. This wasn't an injury or yesterdays fatigue.
He swallowed hard and forced the shirt back on, hands trembling.
"…Put the papers on the bike," he said quietly. 'I can't lift those' Panic slowly spread in him.
Peter didn't move. "Yamo, what the hell is going on?"
Yamo didn't answer.
Because for the first time since arriving in this world—
He didn't know.