Chapter Text
The voice spoke again, mockingly calm. "It’s just you and me, Peter. Let’s play a game."
Peter shook his head, curls falling into his tear-streaked face. His stomach churned, the lasagna from earlier threatening to come back up.
“Pick up the phone, Peter,” the voice growled, low and venomous, dripping with malice. It wasn’t just distorted—it seemed to crawl through the line, twisting like a serpent into Peter’s ears. Every syllable oozed cruel amusement, as if the man on the other end was savoring Peter’s fear.
"No," Peter whispered, then louder, "No! I'm not playing your sick game!"
The voice chuckled, a sound that made Peter's skin crawl. "Oh, but you don't have a choice, Petey. You see, choice went out the window when I decided to play. I'm the one in control here. Now - pick up the phone before I teach you an abrupt lesson in obedience!"
With trembling hands, Peter reached for the phone, his fingers fumbling as if even the device itself had become foreign. He stumbled back up and pressed it to his ear, clutching it like a lifeline. “I don’t know what you did to FRIDAY or to my phone, but my dad has backup security protocols. He’ll be here any second.”
The voice slithered with mockery. “Oh, Peter... Daddy’s not coming. Neither are the Avengers. Even if they got the call, they’d never make it in time. You’re all alone, kiddo.” The mockery in the voice sharpened, each word a dagger.
Peter’s breath hitched. His throat felt like it was closing, and the walls of the living room seemed to press in closer. “What do you want?” he croaked, his voice cracking with desperation.
“Like I said, I want to play a game,” the voice purred, dark delight thick in every word. “A simple game of trivia. Movie trivia, in fact. You’re a smart kid, Peter. I know you’ll do great.” The mocking tone turned razor-sharp. “Three questions. Answer them all correctly, and I leave you alone. Answer one wrong...” A pause. Then, the voice rasped, “And I’ll see what your insides look like.”
Peter’s knees buckled. He slid to the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall as he clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sob that clawed its way out. His chest heaved, his pulse thundering in his ears.
“Are you ready, Petey?” the voice hissed, the nickname laced with sinister glee.
The lights then flickered and then cut out entirely, plunging the house into pitch blackness. The sudden silence was suffocating, the hum of electricity replaced by the weight of Peter’s ragged breathing and the relentless pounding of his heart.
Peter curled into himself, hugging his knees to his chest as tears streamed down his face. “Please, I—”
“First question,” the voice interrupted, cold and indifferent to his pleas. “Name the killer in Halloween.”
Peter buried his face in his knees, his body shaking violently. “Please... leave me alone,” he begged, his voice barely a whisper.
“Oh, come on, Petey pie,” the voice crooned, mockingly sweet. “This one’s a warm-up. I know you know it.”
Peter’s breathing grew erratic, his mind racing through a fog of panic. “Michael Myers,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.
“Good job!” the voice exclaimed, the false cheer making Peter’s stomach churn. “See? You can do this. Ready for the next one?”
Peter sniffled, wiping his nose with a shaking hand. “Please... stop,” he whimpered.
“But you’re doing so well, Petey. I’d hate for you to quit now.” The voice darkened. “Let’s move on to your favorite movie. This should be an easy one for a smart boy like you.”
Peter froze, his eyes darting to the TV, still faintly glowing in the darkened room. He couldn’t suppress the small, bitter laugh that escaped him. How did this become my night?
The voice dragged him back to reality. “In Star Wars: A New Hope, who is the main villain?”
Peter sat bolt upright, his pulse spiking. “Darth! Darth Vader!” he shouted, his desperation making the words spill out too fast.
“Oh, Petey,” the voice sighed, dripping with mock disappointment. “Wrong answer.”
“No! No, it’s him, you asshole!” Peter screamed, his voice cracking. “He’s the main villain of originals!”
“True, he is the main overarching villain,” the voice agreed, smug and calm. “But in A New Hope, he’s just the muscle. The real villain? Grand Moff Tarkin. He’s the one with the Death Star, remember?”
Peter shook his head violently, his curls sticking to his sweat-dampened face. “That’s not fair! That’s not fucking fair!” he shouted, his voice raw.
“Life’s not fair, kid,” the voice hissed. “But I’m feeling generous. One last chance.”
Peter scrambled toward the security panel again, his fingers frantically pressing buttons, trying to rouse FRIDAY. Nothing. The screen stayed dark, lifeless.
“Final question,” the voice said, a sinister smile audible in its tone. “What door am I at?”
Peter froze, his entire body going cold. “What?” he whispered, barely able to form the word.
“There are two main doors to the house,” the voice explained, matter-of-fact and chilling. “The front door…and the back door. Which one am I at?”
Peter's gaze darted to the patio door behind him, its faint outline visible against the black garden. Then he turned toward the hallway leading to the front entrance. Every shadow seemed alive, every creak a warning. The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a labyrinth of terror.
"Not answering, are we?" the voice chuckled, a sound like broken glass. “Don’t you go breaking the rules on me now, Petey.” The voice demonstrated his disappointment with a click of his tongue. “Rules are funny things, aren't they? Some people follow them blindly.”
A soft, contemplative pause before continuing.
“Some people think rules are meant to be bent. Broken. People—like your dad—remake them entirely.” The voice shifted, becoming darker. “I’ve remade my own rules. Just like hunting. It's not about following the traditional rules. It's about understanding the real game beneath the surface."
Silence pressed against Peter, stealing the breath from his lungs. Each second felt like an eternity, the house holding its breath around him.
A memory flickered - soft summer light filling the living room two years ago. He'd been thirteen, curled into the corner of their oversized couch, math textbook spread across his lap. Tony had been working nearby, blueprints scattered across the coffee table, but he'd noticed Peter's frustration immediately.
"Stuck?" Tony had asked, not looking up from his work, but his tone soft, attentive.
Peter had mumbled something between embarrassment and defeat. Without hesitation, Tony had shifted, sitting down next to his son, dropping a hand onto Peter's shoulder. "Let's take a look, kiddo,” he'd said, and just like that, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
They'd worked through the problem together, Tony's explanations peppered with terrible math jokes that made Peter groan and laugh simultaneously. When Peter finally understood, Tony had ruffled his hair - not dismissively, but with a touch that said, "You're brilliant. You've got this.”
Tony had noticed Peter's exhaustion. Without a word, he'd pulled Peter close, letting him rest against his side. His hand had found Peter's curls, stroking them with a rhythm that was part comfort, part celebration. "You're gonna do amazing things, bambino," he'd whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"You know what's truly interesting?" the voice mused dragging him back to the razor's edge of reality.
The voice was still speaking, its cruel words slithering into his ears like poison.
"Hunting isn’t about the kill. It’s about the moment just before. When the prey realizes exactly how trapped they are.”
Peter couldn’t take it anymore. With a burst of adrenaline-fueled panic, he hit the “end call” button his mind forcing himself to forget the earlier threat. The oppressive voice was gone, cut off mid-taunt, leaving the house in a suffocating silence. His chest heaved, each breath jagged as he forced his legs to move. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as he bolted into the kitchen, his legs trembling so violently it was a miracle they didn’t give out beneath him. Every shadow seemed alive, stretching hungrily toward him as he stumbled to the counter. His fingers clawed at kitchen drawers, yanking them open one by one, desperate to find something—anything—that could serve as a weapon.
“Come on, come on!” he whispered to himself, his hands fumbling through the utensils. The clattering of metal against wood echoed in the empty house, louder than it should have been.
Then, suddenly—
Buzz. Buzz.
The sharp vibration of his phone on the counter made Peter let out a strangled scream. He stumbled back, the drawer slamming shut as he clutched at his chest, the sound echoing in the still air. His phone lit up, the words Unknown Caller glaring back at him like a cruel reminder.
“Leave me alone,” Peter whispered, shaking his head violently. His pulse roared in his ears, his grip tightening around the edge of the counter.
The phone buzzed again, insistent, relentless, mocking. Peter’s hands were shaking so hard he nearly knocked over the block of knives on the counter. His mind screamed at him to leave it alone, to focus on finding something to protect himself with, but the buzzing wouldn’t stop.
Peter’s hand reached out to the knife block, his fingers fumbling to yank one free. The sharp edge glinted dully in the faint glow of the microwave’s clock, the only source of light in the suffocating darkness. He gripped the handle tightly, the blade shaking.
And then, a new sound.
Ding.
Peter’s blood ran cold. His eyes snapped to the phone, where a text message had appeared on the screen.
Answer the phone, Peter.
His stomach churned violently, the words blurring as tears filled his eyes. He staggered back against the counter, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him.
Before he could even process the message, another one came through:
I don’t like being ignored.
Peter stared at the phone, the screen glowing like a beacon of dread in the darkened kitchen. His entire body trembled, the knife slipping slightly in his sweaty grip as another notification shattered the heavy silence.
A new message lit up the screen:
You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Peter. Pick up the phone, or someone else gets hurt.
Peter’s breath hitched. His mind raced, grasping at the implications of the threat.
Before he could react, another message buzzed in:
Let’s start with MJ. Sweet girl. Always reading those sci-fi books, isn’t she? Do you think she’ll scream or beg when I find her?
Peter’s stomach twisted violently. “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Leave her alone.” Tears welled in his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from the screen.
Or Ned. He’s always been loyal to you. Best friends since third grade, right? Wouldn’t that be tragic?
Peter let out a shaky sob, his breathing erratic. The phone buzzed again, and this time the message hit him like a physical blow.
Of course, if you’re too stubborn, there’s always your father. Iron Man’s tough, but even he has his limits, don’t you think?
“No!” Peter cried out, his voice raw. He stumbled forward, his free hand gripping the counter for support as tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to steady his breathing, but the messages just kept coming.
Tick tock, Peter. Answer the phone, or I’ll decide for you. One by one.
The phone buzzed again, but this time the message included an attachment. Peter’s trembling fingers hesitated before opening it. A photo loaded on the screen: his dad, seated in the gala’s brightly lit venue, surrounded by smiling guests.
A cold wave of terror washed over Peter.
The next text appeared almost instantly:
It’d be so easy to ruin his night. Just one little bang, and all those happy faces turn to screams. Don’t test me, Peter.
Peter’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, clutching the phone as if it might shatter. His breath came in ragged sobs, the knife trembling in his other hand.
Then another message came through, its words sharp and taunting:
Last chance. Answer the phone, or the first body drops. Who’s it going to be, Petey? MJ? Ned? Or dear old Dad?
The phone started buzzing again. Peter’s tears blurred his vision as he stared at it, his mind spinning with helplessness and fear.
He didn’t want to answer. But he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not now. Not after the threats.
With a shaking hand, Peter pressed the answer button and lifted the phone to his ear.
“Good boy,” the voice purred, every word oozing malice. “Your friends and father may be safe now, but I told you what would happen if hung up on me again.”
Peter sniffled, his body feeling like lead.
“Shut up,” Peter hissed, his voice breaking on the words. Tears burned his eyes. His knuckles whitened around the knife, his pulse thundering so loudly he thought his heart might burst.
“You think that’s going to save you?” the voice continued, its tone sharp, predatory. “That little blade?”
“SHUT UP,” Peter spat, his chest heaving as he forced himself to sound braver than he felt. “If you can see me, then you can’t be at the gala. You can’t be in two places at once. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“Trying?” The voice mocked, rising slightly, playful and cruel. “Let’s be honest, Peter—you’re terrified. I can hear it in your voice. The little catches when you breathe, the way you’re squeezing that knife so hard your hand’s going numb. Admit it, you’re shaking. Oh, Petey. You think you’ve figured it out, huh?
Peter’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to give this psycho the satisfaction of hearing him break. “You’re stalling,” he said, his voice more even now. “You’re hoping I’ll freak out and make it easier for you. But I’m not falling for it. My dad will figure out what’s happening and he’s going to find you.”
The voice let out a sharp bark of laughter, cold and biting. “Oh, Petey, I love this fire in you. It’s almost a shame to snuff it out.”
Peter’s heart skipped, but he refused to falter. “If you were really watching him, you wouldn’t have time to call me. You’re just some loser playing games because you’ve got nothing better to do.”
The voice hissed in mock frustration, the amusement slipping just enough for Peter to sense that he’d struck a nerve.
“Careful, Peter,” the voice growled, their voice lowering into something darker, more venomous. “You’re getting cocky. That’s the kind of mistake that gets people killed.”
Peter’s grip on the knife tightened. “Yeah? You keep saying that, but nothing’s happened yet. You’re just a coward hiding behind threats.” His voice broke slightly, but he pressed on. “You can’t be in two places at once. You’re bluffing.”
The silence lingered, a menacing hum that made Peter’s skin crawl. Then, the voice returned, quieter now, as if savoring every word.
“Oh, Petey, you’re so sure of yourself. But who said I was alone?"
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
The voice paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Peter’s skin crawl. Then, it whispered, soft and intimate, like a secret meant only for him: “You want to know something, Petey? That last question, the one about the doors, was a trick one, too.”
Peter’s breath hitched as his gaze darted to the back door, the faint outline of the garden barely visible beyond the glass. He swore he saw movement in the corner of his eye—a shadow shifting, unnatural and deliberate—but when he turned, there was nothing there.
“Because, I’ve been inside this whole time. And it’s game over for you.”