"Doctor! Doctor! Let me hide out here!"
Peter Parker's young, high-pitched shout—carrying even a thunderous rumble—came from the doorway. The cold wind he brought rushing in made the fireplace flames sway from side to side, as if they were about to go out.
The youth squeezed through the crack in the door, deftly pulled out a "Not Receiving Visitors" sign from the shoe cabinet beside it, and hung it on the hook outside. Then he stretched out an arm and pressed the leftmost button on the intercom beside the door. The rolling shutter outside slowly descended.
The room was dim, lit only by the firelight, as though night had suddenly fallen. Peter had moved so quickly that the other three had not had time to stop him, but what he did next was even harder to understand.
Peter crossed the living room at top speed and entered the kitchen at the back. He retrieved a bottle of Scotch whisky from beneath the leftmost cabinet, poured himself a finger into a crystal glass, and tipped it into his mouth like medicine.
Only then did he let out a long breath beside the island counter. The three people by the fireplace stared wide-eyed, as if they had seen some creature fleeing for its life while on the verge of death—shock mingling with confusion, curiosity tempered by cautious hesitation.
What kind of trouble could make Spider-Man drown his sorrows in alcohol? No one could even bring themselves to ask, because it sounded like the tolling bell of the world's end, an alarm for a Flood Apocalypse.
"Sorry, but I need some courage."
Peter spoke between breaths, scrunching up his nose. He clearly was not used to alcohol; the burn made him grimace, before his expression turned into the numb blankness of intoxication.
"Shocking,"