Warnings: mentions of blood, violence

It pours down like rain. My clothes are sticky, and all I can smell is the metallic iron tang. With each new wave, I have an eerie knowledge of who it came from. It's my family, just like always. This time it started with Dad's, quickly followed by Nat, Gran, Mum, and Morgan.

I can't breathe. My fingers claw at my chest as I wake up from the nightmare that's haunted me these past few months. "ARTI, security check."

"It's quiet tonight." He replies, "The tracker on Holt is still active. He's currently out for lunch at Xaver's like always."

"You gotta admit, this one is punctual. Makes things a little easier." I mumble and rub my temples. Every inch of my body aches, which I should have known would happen when I went on the run, but it's what I had to do. At least, that's what I tell myself when I get out of 'bed' each morning. "Do me a favor? Secure the room and keep an eye on him. I've gotta clean up."

"Sure thing." ARTI chimes, and I can hear the rudimentary locks I connected to his system close over the doors and windows.

I grab a relatively fresh set of clothes from my bag and head into the washroom—if that's even what you can call it. The shower only runs cold, the sink pretends it's a shower most days, and the toilet is hopeless. Surprisingly, this isn't the worst place I've crashed in.

My heart drops when I catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror. I'm starting to wonder if I'm nothing more than just a shadow of myself—if I died the day I left—if maybe I left the best parts of me back home.

The cold water brings goosebumps across my skin, but I continue on. I can't stop scrubbing at my skin. A part of me hopes that if I keep going until my skin is raw, I'll be able to wash away these past six months.

Instead, I smell eucalyptus.

It always manages to remind me of Dad. He used something different for years, but after the one time they ran out of his soap at the store, he used Pepper's, which was a blend designed for stress relief—something anyone that spent a lot of time around Dad in the old days needed. Once he used it, he never went back. The smell is now ingrained in my mind to only be associated with Dad. Sometimes, just for a second, it makes me feel happy—like he's still around looking out for me through all this. I could use one of those seconds right now.

There's still streaks of blood over the shower drain. I spent most of the day last week trying to wash it away, but it's still there.

I keep pouring the soap into my hands and scrubbing at my skin. The longer it doesn't work, the more the frustration clouds my mind until my skin is red. "Why won't you work? Please, I—I just need him again."

My chest tightens. The walls seem to close in on me. I rush out and slide across the floor along with the mat. Everything is screaming and pounding, and I can't stop crying. So, I just sit on the floor, a completely broken mess.

Each day, my body get heavier. It's harder and harder to move—to function. Anxiety gets a deeper grip on me. I'm starting to feel like all I'm made up of is it, pain, grief, and constantly shifting vortex of emotions, and it hurts. All I can do is take one trembling breath at a time until my clears little by little until I can function again.

Once it subsides, I shakily clean myself up and head out into the cold, dim room I've been living in since I got here three weeks ago. "I have an update on Peter. Seems like you could use a little cheering up." ARTI calls and displays a hologram from my watch.

"Not now, ARTI." I call with a raw throat and aching body as I collapse on the crummy mattress. "I just—I just wanna go back to sleep until Holt leaves the lab."

The video plays anyway, which is ARTI's way of ignoring me, "He recently was the representative that gave a donation to the Forest Hills Public Hall on behalf of the Stark Relief Foundation."

I barely find the energy to look up and see Peter on screen, identity hidden behind his suit. "Turn it off. I don't need this right now."

"Yes, you do." He counters, "I was programmed with behavioral analysis, which is how I know you can't sustain yourself like this."

"Watch me." I counter and put a pillow over my head. "Please, all I need is sleep."

"He's going to be in Venice." I manage to hear through the thin pillow.

"What did you just say?" I question and watch the video flickering on screen of Ned obsessing about the senior trip to Europe. It makes my chest ache and regret taking the chance to graduate early. The option was always there, but once we came back it felt like too much to face school on top of everything else, so I took the chance long before the papers were printing lies about me.

Still, I miss everyone.

I reach for the letter on instinct. The paper crinkles as I unfold it for the millionth time. It still feels like some prank, but I know it's not. My grandfather wrote me this note. Why? I have no idea, but I know there's a reason. Reading it helps calm me, but this time isn't for comfort.

The last portion of the letter has always bugged me. Pieces of it have fallen into place. I've done my best to follow my heart like he advised, but I couldn't figure out who my grandfather referred to with 'above all else, keep him close.' A part of me thought he meant Dad. We were always close, and I trusted him with everything.

Except, now he's gone, and I'm lost all over again.

I'm starting to think maybe my grandfather meant someone else. Maybe he meant Peter. After all, we kept each other sane after Dad passed. We helped each other through everything, and maybe we're supposed to be together for whatever comes next.

"ARTI, get a train ticket to Venice."

"Already did. We leave in two days."

"Good. Check the standard threats and start scrubbing. We can't leave any trace behind." I fold the letter back up and tuck it away. "Pull up everything we've got on Dr. Bernstein Holt so far and keep digging. Tonight, I'm making my move."

ARTI complies and opens the information we've gotten so far. I crack open the cheap, ancient laptop I have for this kind of stuff. He taps me into the feed, which I dive headfirst into.

Funny thing is, when you stop worrying about what lines can and can't be crossed, it's shocking what you're able to find—the dirt you can dig up on someone. Even the cleanest people have something they've swept under the rug. Sometimes, you've just gotta know how and where to look.

A smile tugs at my lips as I finally root out the system of weeds in the seemingly perfect garden of Dr. Bernstein Holt's life. In the past few months, I found that all it takes is the smallest things to unravel even the strongest of people.

Once I have what feels like enough, I slip my suit on underneath some jeans and a hoodie. No one pays much attention to me—or anyone really, which makes my life easier as I approach the small lab that OSCORPS owns and employs Dr. Holt through a series of shell companies. It's how they air out their dirty laundry.

Only the smallest traces make it through to their own files. That's how they keeps their hands clean from what they're really doing. It's only if you look close enough that you'll find the dirt under their nails. All I want is to destroy them, to expose to everyone that their hands are anything but clean. They're drenched, dripping in the blood they've spilled in their obsession for power.

To do that, I've got to clear my name—after all, international terrorist doesn't scream 'reliable.' Or, maybe, I just need to ruin their lives like they did mine. No matter what, I'm going to do whatever it takes.

Holt exits the lab, locking up before he heads down the street. I continue walking towards him, and right when we intersect, I make a point to 'accidentally' bump into him. It's all that's needed to transfer the chemicals.

I keep a mental clock going in my head and wait for the trademark scuffing of shoes against the concrete. It's all routine from there. "Are you okay, sir?" I question in semi-flawless German as I rush back to Holt. He can't get any words out, which I hear is one of the side effects, right alongside dizziness, nausea, clouded vision, trouble focusing, and—my personal favorite—lowered self-control.

It's not hard to move the drugged scientist into what I'm sure the camera's will be fooled into thinking is a warm, cozy cafe. What they won't see is us slipping right out the side door and out to an empty warehouse. It's almost shocking how easy it all is—to drug and kidnap a fully grown man.

Then again, I've had months of practice.

It helps, because now, I know what knots are impossible to slip out of, what dosage to administer, and how long it typically takes for them to wake up. The quiet isn't as distressing as it used to be, but it still screeches in my head.

Everything is clouded. It's a struggle to focus on anything. For some reason, all I can think about is what I left behind. They're always on my mind, have been from the second I got on the jet and left New York behind. No matter how much I try to check in on them, it never dulls the knife buried to the hilt in my chest.

I suppose it's not something you can just get over. One day, things were complicated, but okay. Then overnight, the papers were screaming that Phantom was a murderer and international criminal. All of them are supported by false information, but the only way to disprove the claims would be revealing my identity, which is precisely what they wanted.

If I went public with the truth that I'm Phantom—or worse yet, someone makes the connection and discovers I'm a Stark—the people behind the trials would have everything they need to put me in their hands for good. I'd spend the rest of what would likely be a short life, tied down to a table and experimented on until they found whatever they're looking for or my body gave out. A life on the run is better than that—especially if it means I protect Morgan.

I don't even want to imagine what would happen to her if they discovered the relation. The simple detail of shared DNA puts her in as much danger as I am. It's my job to make sure that doesn't ever happen. With Dad gone, I'm the one who is in charge of protecting her.

Holt gasps from his place in the chair, and I snap into action. A facade builds around him, which in his eyes looks startlingly real. I quietly slip off from my place against the table, careful to not make any noise. It's one thing I learned the hard way when I first started testing the waters of the abilities I never knew I had. I can manipulate shadow and now light, but sound? That's something outside my range.

"What? What's going on?" He mumbles as he pulls against the restraints.

"Nice to see you're awake, Dr. Holt. Or can I call you Bernstein?" The tall, muscular man that I create for these illusions questions. ARTI was more than happy to lend his voice for the illusion, which feels strange, but it works with the speaker set up in my mask. It helps to seal the validity of the illusion. Plus, it means I only have to memorize a few phrases of whatever language is spoken where we stop. After that, I walk around where ARTI goes and read the subtitles while guiding the conversation.

"Why am I here?" Holt questions.

"You know why, Dr. Holt." ARTI replies, "You have information that I have been hired to obtain."

"I don't know what you could possibly want. I work for a small company. I run genetic testing and study mutations."

ARTI lets out a laugh as I circle the restrained Doctor and lean against the table. "No, what you do is much, much bigger than that, which is why we need all the research and data you've collected, and before you refuse, you should know, my employer told me to use any means necessary. It'd be such a shame if something were to happen to your wife, Karlotta, or your mistress, Carina."

Holt's eyes go wide when at the mention of his little secret, and as usual, right before our eyes, the man unravels like a cheap jumper. There are tears shed and pleads for forgiveness called out as he spills out every little secret he's been hiding away. I take note of it all. You never know what little detail can unlock everything.

By the time he's finished, the poor man has snot still pouring out of his nose, head hanging low in shame, and nothing left to hide. I move to where the illusion of ARTI is and cut the ropes. "Wait an hour, check into a hotel, and disappear. If you go home or tell anyone, I'll make sure mine is the last face you see."

I walk out of the empty warehouse, trying to piece together the snippets of information we've gathered, but it's difficult with my head all fuzzy after using up that much energy. "I obtained a physical copy of his research from his computer. Would you like me to add it to the file?"

"You mean the mountain of useless crap I've compiled? Sure, just double check you scrubbed any traces of yourself. We're in too deep to get caught now."

"Only if you promise to actually get some sleep."

"I will when the nightmares end." I retort, but ARTI remains silent. "Fine, I promise to try, Mum."

"Any comparison to your mother is an honor. Pepper Potts is quite an accomplished woman."

"Oh, quit drooling." I tease as I enter the crappy apartment closing and locking the door behind me. "Secure the room and keep prepping for the transition to Venice."

It's only then that it really hits me. After months of longing and wishing for even a sliver of home and my old life. Now, it's really happening.

I'm going to see Peter again.