Theo Vale was late.
Not the "I-overslept-and-now-my-boss-will-yell-at-me" kind of late.
Not even the "I-might-get-fired-if-I-don't-show-up" kind of late.
No, this was the "if-I-don't-get-my-ass-in-gear-I'm-going-to-get-eaten-alive" kind of late. The knot in his stomach had tightened the moment he'd agreed to the job. Grand Central loading docks. 11:47 PM. No signatures. No questions. Just deliver the box. Triple pay. Which, in Theo's line of work, was essentially an invitation to stroll into the lion's den while humming a cheerful tune, just to see how long you could hold onto your vital organs before they were politely removed.
Pedaling Strophie through the winding streets of a ghostly New York, it felt like the whole city was holding its breath. The usual noise—honking cabs, street vendors haggling over the last hot dog, and random drunk guy arguing with a lamppost—was gone. In its place? A deathly silence. The kind of silence that makes you check over your shoulder every two seconds, just in case something's about to pop out of the shadows with an inconvenient desire to eat you. The only sound was the grating squeal of Strophie's gears, begging for mercy with every pedal stroke.
Strophie—his junkyard-chic bike—wasn't exactly the envy of the courier world. She wasn't the shiny, carbon-fiber speedster most couriers would boast about. Nope, Strophie looked like a relic from a post-apocalyptic garage sale. Her frame was rustier than an abandoned roller coaster, and half the gears didn't even work, but somehow, she still got him where he needed to go—fast. And that's why Theo had named her Strophie. Not after any grace or elegance, mind you. If Strophie had grace, she'd probably have collapsed into a pile of scrap metal years ago. No, Strophie was named after the Greek nymph who ran from Apollo—not for her agility, but because if she didn't run, she'd have ended up as divine roadkill.
Theo leaned into another sharp turn, the handlebars shaking like an old man trying to decide if he's going to stand up from his recliner. The box in his messenger bag radiated a strange warmth, which only made his growing unease worse. Great. It was glowing. He glanced down at it, not sure whether to be impressed by its sheer radiance or terrified by what that might mean. The cardinal rule of supernatural courier work? Never ask questions about the box. You just deliver it, take the absurdly generous paycheck, and get out before things devolve into full-on weirdness. And the "things getting weird" threshold? Well, he'd passed that about three blocks ago.
But here he was. Hurling toward a deserted loading dock in the middle of the night, wondering if he was about to be the protagonist in a B-movie where the villain was something far scarier than a late-night snack—like maybe an actual demon. The docks? As desolate as advertised. No bored security guards. No helpful strays looking for an extra ten bucks. Just the scent of diesel fumes and the harsh, flickering light of a dying streetlamp casting long, jagged shadows over cracked pavement. A classic. The kind of setup where you know you're either about to make history or make an incredibly bad decision. Either way, it was going to be one for the books.
Theo dismounted Strophie with the kind of careful precision that only comes from years of surviving in places that felt like they were just waiting for an excuse to eat you. His boots crunched loudly on the debris scattered across the ground. The box pulsed again, hotter now, almost like it had developed a heartbeat of its own. His brain, being rational as always, whispered, "Nope, not questioning that. Not today, Satan." He set the box down gently on a rust-streaked shipping container, eyes darting around the shadows.
That's when he heard it.
A low, guttural growl that vibrated through the ground beneath his feet. It wasn't a growl of your typical late-night alley cat or overly ambitious raccoon. No, this sounded like the kind of growl you hear right before something big, bad, and undeniably hungry decides you'd make a tasty appetizer. And judging by the way the hairs on the back of Theo's neck stood up, this was the sort of growl that meant you didn't have time for deep thoughts or existential musings. You just ran.
Theo whirled around, heart hammering in his chest, as two figures emerged from the darkness. They weren't your run-of-the-mill muggers or the occasional shady character you might encounter after dark. No, these looked like they'd been plucked from a fever dream, creatures stitched together from the worst possible combinations of myth, madness, and some particularly creative nightmares. Their limbs were stretched and grotesque, joints bending in ways nature never intended—like someone had taken an anatomy book, decided to ignore all the rules, and just had fun with it. Their fur, a sickly shade of wet asphalt, glistened under the flickering streetlight, as though they were covered in something far worse than grease—something that made the hairs on the back of Theo's neck prickle with a primal warning.
And their faces?
Theo wasn't sure which was more unsettling: the way their eyes gleamed with the cold malice of creatures who knew exactly how to hunt or the twisted, jagged way their mouths stretched into eerie grins. It was as if someone had taken his worst nightmares—every creepy thing he'd ever imagined—and threw them all together like a jigsaw puzzle made from broken glass and bad decisions. The creatures grinned at him, showing rows of sharp, yellow teeth that looked far too many for their faces.
Cercopes.
The word came to Theo in a flash, unbidden but familiar. He remembered the words of a drunken warlock who had stumbled across his path once, after a night that ended with far too much firewater and far too little sense. "Nasty little thieves," the warlock had slurred, "they'll snatch your soul, your molars, your wallet—and if you're really unlucky, maybe your socks too." The warlock had laughed, but Theo had never forgotten the warning. It was the kind of thing you hoped you'd only ever hear in some poorly illustrated, musty old bestiary. A creature that thrived on terror, stealing whatever it could—souls, sanity, and, evidently, some particularly bad luck.
And then, as though to prove his worst fears right, the Cercopes lunged.
Without thinking, Theo swung Strophie around in a wide arc, using the rusty old bike like a blunt instrument of defense. It wasn't graceful, it wasn't pretty, but it was effective. The bike frame connected with the first Cercopes' chest with a loud, sickening crunch, sending the creature sprawling across the pavement in a shriek of agony. It was an ugly, jarring sound—the kind that made your skin crawl and your instincts scream run. But as the creature twisted and writhed in an unnatural heap on the ground, the second Cercopes was already on the move.
Before Theo could react, the creature had scaled his back like some deranged, multi-jointed spider. Its claws scraped against his jacket, its breath hot and foul against the back of his neck.
"Not today, you overgrown flea," Theo growled, barely able to catch his breath.
He spun around, using the only thing he had—his bike, which was now his only shot at survival. With a move born of sheer desperation, he flung himself backwards, knocking the creature off his back. But in his panic, the momentum sent him stumbling into a trash can with a clang that echoed down the alley. For a second, he thought he might've broken his leg—hell, maybe both of them—but the real problem was still attached to his rear. With an instinctual lunge, Theo kicked off the ground, hitting the pedals of Strophie with a speed that was almost unthinkable given how she was falling apart.
But the Cercopes weren't giving up that easily.
With an enraged screech, the second beast was already on him, leaping forward in an arc that defied the laws of physics, its claws outstretched for Theo's throat. The only thing between them? His junkyard bike and the very thin hope that Strophie still had one good gear left in her.
"Come on, come on," Theo muttered between gritted teeth, his pulse pounding in his ears. His hands gripped the handlebars so hard his knuckles were turning white. "Not now, not now!"
Then, the world shifted.
The box—the cursed box—pulsed with an energy so dark and malevolent it almost felt alive. Theo's breath hitched as a strange current ran through the air, static crackling around him. The box, tucked deep in his bag, was vibrating as though it was calling to him. The shadows around him seemed to stretch and warp, and the very street beneath his wheels felt like it was giving way to something deeper, darker. The streets around him bent as if they were made of smoke. The eerie glow of the box had intensified. It wasn't just pulsing now. It was humming, thrumming with a power that vibrated deep inside his chest.
Something was wrong.
The Cercopes' snarls grew louder, more frantic, but it was like they couldn't see him anymore. They were focused on something else now—something far more terrifying.
Theo barely had time to register that the night air had grown thick and oppressive, every breath a struggle. His heart hammered in his throat, and his hands shook on the handlebars, but he couldn't stop. No—he wasn't sure what was happening, but something bigger than him, bigger than the Cercopes, was making its presence known.
As the first Cercopes pushed itself back to its feet, a chilling sound rang through the alley—like a shriek, but it wasn't human. It was deeper. Angrier. And from the corner of his eye, Theo saw something glimmer. A shadow was moving at the edge of his vision, but when he tried to look directly at it, it vanished. Whatever it was, it was closer now, and it was coming for them.
Theo felt his stomach lurch.
He didn't know what this was, but he wasn't sticking around to find out.
With a last, desperate burst of energy, Theo surged forward, putting every ounce of strength into the pedals. Strophie groaned under the pressure, the old bike protesting at every turn, but Theo didn't care. Whatever was coming, it was about to find out that Theo Vale was not the guy you wanted to mess with tonight.
He just had to hope that getting out of here alive wasn't going to require more than his wits and an old, rusted bicycle.Just as Theo neared the loading dock exit, the inevitable happened. One of the Cercopes launched itself at him with a ferocity that could only be described as "all-in" for a death match. The impact was so brutal, it felt like he'd been hit by a semi-truck—if that semi was made of angry, fur-coated nightmare fuel. Theo went flying off Strophie, his bike clattering to the ground, and landed hard on the pavement, his breath knocked out of him in a rush that made him feel like he'd just swallowed a fire hydrant.
The box, which had already been glowing like it was auditioning for a sci-fi horror flick, tumbled from his bag, rolling and bouncing with a life of its own. It flickered between sickly green, a violent crimson, and back to green again, like it was trying to win a "Color of the Year" competition with zero regard for Theo's heart rate. It was almost as if the box was trying to say, "Buckle up, pal! It's about to get really weird up in here!"
Theo groaned, struggling to breathe, feeling like he might have just become a human pancake. But before he could gather his thoughts, a voice broke through the chaos—one that sounded way too chill for a night filled with creepy monsters and cursed packages.
"Whoa, Speedy Gonzalez, calm down."
Theo blinked rapidly, his vision fuzzy from the collision. His brain was on the verge of full-on meltdown, and he couldn't quite process what he was seeing. There, standing over him like it was just another Tuesday, was… Spider-Man? THE Spider-Man?
Wait, no. This wasn't a hallucination. Not this time. Definitely not. The red and blue suit was unmistakable.
"Uh, you're… Spider-Man?" Theo wheezed, barely able to get the words out. His life had just gone from 0 to "what in the multiverse is happening?" in about three seconds.
Spider-Man grinned down at him, the mask not hiding the mischievous glint in his eyes. "Yep, the one and only. The real deal. How's the delivery going, by the way?"
Theo stared up at him, still in a mild state of disbelief. "I, uh, think I just got hit by a demon gorilla, so… not great, if I'm being honest."
Spider-Man, looking far too amused by the whole situation, crouched down, cocking his head like he was inspecting some sort of peculiar bug. "Well, you know, most people signal before they change lanes, but you? You just went straight into the chaos like it was a Sunday stroll."
Theo finally managed to sit up, dusting himself off, still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he was talking to Spider-Man in the middle of what could very well be the worst delivery of his life. "Yeah, well, I was a little preoccupied with, y'know, not being devoured by what looks like an oversized raccoon on steroids."
Spider-Man chuckled, clearly enjoying Theo's bewildered panic. "I had to step in," he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the dead-eyed Cercopes, still sprawled on the pavement, nursing its bruises. "You were about to get served with a side of extra crispy. Not sure if that's on the menu tonight, but hey, you never know with monsters."
Theo rubbed his chest where he'd been knocked, finally finding his bearings. "Okay, okay. So, what's this? Some weird version of a FedEx versus UPS battle gone rogue? You know, delivery disputes and all that?"
Spider-Man raised an eyebrow. "Delivery dispute?" he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, like FedEx and UPS duking it out over a package of premium flat-screen TVs?"
Theo gave him a look. "More like, please-don't-eat-me-I-have-overdue-library books to worry about," he corrected, finally standing up, though his legs were still shaking a bit. He reached for the box that was practically vibrating with malicious intent, clearly annoyed by how things were going.
Just as he grabbed the cursed thing, the sound of gnashing teeth filled the air, followed by a blood-curdling screech. He barely had time to register it before another Cercopes—this one with the menacing look of an angry ferret—lunged toward him, mouth wide open, aiming for a snack.
Theo's eyes widened in panic. "Uh, hey, Spider-Man?" he said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the rapidly advancing nightmare. "I could really use some backup here, unless you're planning on just watching me get chewed up while you work on your stand-up routine."
Spider-Man's head snapped back in Theo's direction, as if suddenly remembering that they were in the middle of a battle for survival, not a comedy sketch. He shot a web at the Cercopes, expertly wrapping it up in sticky threads before the creature even had time to blink.
"You got it, Speedy," Spider-Man said, voice full of playful determination. "I'll handle the circus while you try not to die, deal?"
Theo, now feeling a little more reassured but still completely out of his depth, nodded, eyeing the box one more time. It was still glowing—erratically, like a cheap nightclub sign that couldn't decide what color it wanted to be. It wasn't a good sign, and Theo had a feeling whatever was inside this box was about to make things a lot worse. But for now, at least he had Spider-Man in his corner. Before Theo could process what was happening, Spider-Man casually kicked the Cercopes aside like it was some annoying soccer ball that had overstayed its welcome. The creature went flying with an almost comical squeal, and Spider-Man landed with a playful chuckle. "Geez, it's like you're ordering everything from the monster menu tonight. At least you didn't have to deal with lizard people. They're such a drag—trust me, you don't want any part of that."
Theo was too rattled to appreciate the humor. His mind was trying and failing to catch up, overloaded with a mix of adrenaline, confusion, and the sheer weirdness of the whole situation. He wasn't even sure where to start with the Spider-Man encounter, but right now, the box in his bag was his primary concern. He grabbed it, feeling its warmth pulse in his hands like a beating heart. The glow intensified, shifting colors, flashing erratically—and before Theo could say a word, it detonated.
Not with light. Not with fire.
But with sound.
The explosion of noise ripped through the air like a sonic boom, slamming into Theo's skull with the force of a wrecking ball. His teeth rattled, his vision blurred from the sheer intensity of it all. For a terrifying moment, he thought his eardrums might actually rupture. His knees buckled, and the ground beneath him trembled as the sound of the blast seemed to warp space itself, carrying with it an almost physical weight. He clamped his hands to his ears, but it was no use—this was a force of nature, and he was just an unfortunate bystander.
When the blinding light finally faded and the ringing in his ears subsided, the world came crashing back into focus. The eerie silence that followed the chaos felt as if the city itself was holding its breath. Theo blinked, and then realized with dawning confusion that he was no longer standing in a loading dock surrounded by monstrous creatures. Instead, he was at the center of a massive crater, the earth cracked and shattered beneath his feet, like a cosmic scar. The air was thick with the remnants of whatever had just occurred—fragments of light, distant echoes of a sound that still felt trapped in his bones.
The Cercopes? Gone. The box? Vanished. And in its place, nestled in the center of the cracked concrete, was an old, rusted key—ornate, heavy, and almost absurdly out of place.
Spider-Man, who had clearly decided to stick around and investigate, squinted down at the key. "Okay," he said, scratching his head beneath the mask, "new theory: You're some kind of terrible magician, right? That was unexpected, to say the least."
Theo barely registered the joke. His eyes locked onto the key, the strange, undeniable weight of it in his hand dragging him back into the moment. The world still seemed off-kilter, like his brain hadn't quite caught up with reality. He glanced back at the now-emptied loading dock, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
"I didn't even get to enjoy the show," he muttered, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and frustration.
"Well, next time," Spider-Man said with a grin that was as easygoing as ever, "maybe skip the midnight deliveries of definitely cursed artifacts, huh? I've got enough weirdness in my life to last a lifetime."
Theo's fingers tightened around the key, its rusted edges digging into his skin, and an unsettling sensation crawled up his spine. Whatever had just occurred—the explosion, the silence, the disappearance of the creatures—it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
His heart still pounded in his chest, but now there was something else too: a strange, heavy sense of anticipation, like he'd just cracked open the first page of a book that wasn't even close to finished. Whatever had just happened, it was only the beginning.
"Yeah," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice thick with a sudden realization. "This is just the beginning."
The city buzzed around him, as oblivious as ever to the chaos he'd just experienced. But Theo couldn't shake the feeling that his life had just gone off the rails, and whatever came next… he wasn't ready for it.