A/N: 13 follows and 8 favourites in my first two chapters? Thank you guys so much! Knowing there's people out there who are reading this is really motivational :)

Everything was spinning.

Her vision was fading in and out, between blinding white lights and darkness. She couldn't move properly, her hands and feet were tied down to something. There was a sharp pain in her arm, like the prick of a needle, and then it suddenly started erupting over every inch of her body. The feeling was like she was being burned from the inside out.

She could feel a hand on her shoulder, squeezing almost reassuringly. A voice beside her was saying something, but she couldn't make out any of the words. She could barely even hear the sound of her own screaming. A painful surge of adrenaline pulsated through her veins, her bones felt like they were beginning to break—

Clara woke with a start, her alarm clock blaring on her bedside table. Her hand flew out to silence it, resonating on impact with a loud bang. She barely felt the smashed pieces of plastic against her palm. Her skin was covered in cold sweat, she struggled to catch her breath. In her chest, her heart seemed to be going a hundred miles per hour.

What a weird dream.

She swung her legs off her bed and checked her phone for the time, running a hand through her disheveled black hair. Tears had welled in her eyes, she wiped them away hastily with the sleeve of her pyjama shirt.

6:59 a.m.

When the pounding of her heart finally slowed, she went to the bathroom to wash the sweat off her face. It was Thursday, two days since she'd sat in on Elias' tutoring session. She dressed and headed downstairs. Her mother didn't have work today, so Clara expected to see her before she left for school. What she didn't expect, was to hear the sound of a second person in her house. Trying to figure out who it was, she slowed her pace. Through the first floor's front windows she could see a silver Mercedes parked outside on the street.

"Ah, Clara's finally awake I see."

A middle aged man in a grey suit was standing there, smiling warmly at her.

"Uncle Robert," Clara addressed the man. He looked like he had just arrived, standing in the living room with expensive oxfords still on. "What are you doing here?"

Robert had once been her father's co-worker, as well as his older brother. At forty five years old, he was a man of average build and the same dark brown hair as her father, as well as salt and pepper stubble along a sharp jawline. After her father's death, he had been the one to take over Lockwood Labs. Clara had always felt indifferent about him. He was okay, she supposed, and nice as far as nice uncles went, but they certainly weren't close. Being the CEO of a major research company, Clara surmised he wouldn't have much time for anything outside of work.

Her mother on the other hand, was different. For whatever reason, Joanna didn't like Robert. He was too rough around the edges, or maybe he reminded her too much of her late husband. But Joanna's businesswoman charisma masked any of that through kind smiles and engaging small-talk.

"I just got back from a business trip in Philly, thought I'd drop in to visit my favourite niece," Robert told her. He reached forward and tousled her hair. "Long time no see, kiddo."

"In Philadelphia?" her mother inquired, eyebrows raising. She sat on the living rooms bergère armchair, long legs crossed at the ankle. "I wasn't aware the company had a laboratory up there."

The corners of his eyes crinkles in something that looked like smile. "Just a new business venture we're exploring," he replied. "It's nothing all that interesting, really. I assume work at the firm is treating you well?"

"Well enough." Her mother looked content with a brief response. "Clara," she interjected, turning towards her suddenly. "What was that noise I heard earlier?"

For a split-second, Clara's mind blanked.

"My alarm clock fell," she then lied. "I think I'll need to buy a new one."

Clara's uncle seemed to think it was funny, which discontinued further questioning from her mother. He looked around the house, taking in all its features as if he were painting a mental picture in his mind.

"This place hasn't changed one bit," he mused. His eyes found the bookshelf, and fell on the neatly assorted boxes of papers and documents that had once belonged to her father. "You still keep all this rubbish? If you want I can help you get rid of some of it, I've got a warehouse downtown."

Joanna smiled tenderly. "You know I can't bring myself to get rid of any of Dean's things."

That much was true. As high-strung and refined as her mother appeared to be, she was also oddly sentimental, refusing to throw out any of her father's belongings after his death. Similar to how parents who had lost their child preserved their memory in an untouched bedroom, still filled with their favourite toys, Joanna Lockwood had maintained her father's study. It was a small room down there hall, where Clara presumed he'd spent most of his time working. When the maids were in, they dusted and vacuumed, but never moved or reorganised a thing.

When her uncle moved, Clara's eyes followed him as he walked past her to pick up a framed photograph from the bookshelf. It showed both her parents standing around a younger version of herself. All three of them were laughing, even her mother; Clara looked barely older than five when it had been taken. Her uncle looked at it with almost a pained expression. Clara had always got the impression he'd taken her father's death particularly hard.

"The anniversary was about two weeks ago, huh?" Robert mulled. Clara knew the question was rhetorical. He turned to her. "My brother would be so proud to see how you've grown."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. All this talk of her father these past few days was more than she cared for. Joanna took the opportunity to stand from her chair.

"Clara," she said suddenly. "Why don't you fix up some breakfast? I'm sure Robert's hungry from the drive up here." She turned to Robert. "I'll make you some coffee while you wait."

"That would be great, Joanna."

Clara was frying the eggs and bacon in the kitchen when her uncle came to talk to her again.

"So, how's school been?" he asked, nursing a coffee in hand. He eyed her suspiciously. "Any boyfriends I should know about? What about that one kid? Elias, was it?"

Clara nearly laughed. She was sure Elias would have gagged if he were in the room. Her mother, who had now taken seat at the dining table just meters away, revealed the slightest hint of interest.

"He's just a friend," Clara replied. She hesitated, but stopped herself from looking to her mother. "And school's been fine."

"Your mother's pushing you hard in your studies, I bet," he muttered, so her mother couldn't hear. He smiled, almost childishly. "Don't stress it too much, kiddo. I never studied too hard."

"Please don't encourage her, Robert," Joanna cut in. Clearly, she had heard. Her gaze wandered out the window, disinterested. "Clara's already struggling in school, she doesn't need any more negative influences."

Clara trained her attention back on the bacon and eggs in front of her, trying to focus to the sizzle of oil rather than the conversation that was unfolding. Her mother had never been scared to talk about her when she was in the room.

"Aw, I doubt that," Robert said. Clara wanted to warn him to stop talking. "She's a smart kid. You're always too hard on her."

Her mother's posture straightened. "I just try to guide her in the right direction," she retorted. "She wastes most of her time working a stupid job she doesn't need, and hanging out with frie—"

Robert laughed. "Isn't that what kids are meant to do?"

"Certainly not my child," her mother bristled.

"Don't you think Dean would have wanted her raised like any other child?"

Her mother's brown eyes narrowed. Clara could see her her sleek fingers tightening around her mug. "My daughter needs to properly learn the realities of life." Her voice was dangerously low. "That things aren't always just handed to you with no costs."

The sheer tone in her mother's voice caused Clara to flinch. She gasped when the side of her hand brushed against the searing hot metal of the frying pan, feeling the burnt skin immediately begin to blister. Both her mother, and uncle turned towards her.

Quickly, Clara pulled her hand away, closing it tightly into a fist.

Shit.

"Did you burn yourself?" her uncle asked, starting to walk over towards the medicine cabinet above the sink.

"No, don't." It was a knee-jerk reaction, and she'd clearly said it with too much force, because her mother looked startled.

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Robert moved towards her to try get a better look. He eyed her suspiciously, as though he knew she was hiding something. "Let me see."

The burn was healing, she could feel it. A warm, tingling sensation that meant her damaged skin was sewing itself back together like fabric. She waited the painstaking few seconds for the feeling to leave.

"It's nothing, really," Clara reaffirmed, this time more calmly. She pulled her hand up from beneath the table and showed them. "False alarm."

Her uncle sighed. "Gotta be more careful around fire, kiddo," he said. "Burns don't heal nicely."

"I'll try," she told him.

If only he knew for her, that wasn't the case at all.

Once the school day was over Clara headed into the direction of her part-time job.

She spent after school on Monday's and Thursday's working at a diner in the city. It certainly wasn't akin to a Starbucks, instead a rather small, local place called 'The Milkshake', owned by a seventy-something year old lady named Miriam. She had started there just at the beginning of the school year for some extra cash and experience. Her mother hated it, much preferring Clara to get some internship somewhere more 'legitimate', but that sounded like a nightmare. Sure, the diner wasn't the ideal job, but the pay was good, the work was minimal, and it kept her busy for a few hours.

And after spending the better part of the day thinking about the the near-disastrous incident with her mother and uncle in the morning, she was desperate for anything to distract her.

By the time she reached the diner to start her shift, the sun was already beginning to set. The lighting was low and there was music playing - jazz, from a small radio in the corner. Everything about the establishment was cosy and unsophisticated, and at this time of the day there were never many customers. There were a group of men at the counter, watching the night's football game from the television in the corner. Another couple were seated at one of the booths, laughing and gossiping over hot chocolate and tea.

Aside from them, nobody else.

A second girl, Leah, worked the counter with her. Clara didn't know much about Leah other than that she was a college theatre student, and far too talkative for her liking, especially concerning what seemed to be her rather extravagant and emotional social life. It was always about an hour into their shift where Leah started to get especially chatty.

"And so I caught Justin making out with Anna backstage, while everyone was rehearsing the play! Which was super fucked up because I thought he was meant to be Chelsey's boyfriend," Leah started to tell her.

Clara had never watched a soap opera before, but she was fairly certain she wouldn't need to after this.

Much to Clara's dismay, it didn't sound like Leah was going to stop anytime soon. "And now I don't know whether I should say anything or not," she whined. "Because she's the lead and I'm worried because we don't even have an understudy in case she has like, an emotional breakdown or something…"

Leah was too naive to know Clara wasn't listening, or maybe she just needs to vent and didn't really care. Every few seconds Clara would nod, or smile while the older girl went on and on. When there was nothing left to do, she cleaned the counter in front of her with a rag, scrubbing down in an effort to remove all the coffee stains.

"—so I'm just so conflicted at the moment, but at the same time," Leah continued. "I'm her friend, y'know? I mean morally I can't just not tell her. That would be a complete betrayal of trust—"

When diner's front bell rang, and a customer walked inside, Clara was certain God had heard her prayers.

The customer walked towards the counter to take his order, stopping just before Clara. It was a man.

At first glance, Clara almost wished she could go back to Leah's rambling.

He held a stifling presence. Broad shoulders were covered in a black t-shirt and jacket, paired with a Yankees cap and boots. Blonde hair cropped short, sharp blue eyes, and even white teeth. Undoubtedly, his most distinguishable feature was the long, hideous scar that ran from his cheek down to his jawline. He looked like ex-military, or a retired cop at least— there was just something about the way he carried himself, how he managed to look so out of place compared to the rest of the diner's patrons. Rather than staring at the menu, to Clara it seemed more like he was staring at her.

After some deliberation, he finally ordered. "I'll have a medium cappuccino, no sugar." His voice was rough, and toneless.

Clara input the order numbers into the register. "To go?" she asked.

The man smiled, there was something off about it. "I'll have it here, thanks."

Once his order was complete, the man took his drink and sat down in the booth by the window.

"Call me crazy, but that guy looks like a total creep," Leah whispered to her a while later. "It's like he's some gang member crossed with ugly, slightly younger Robert De Niro or something."

The last thing Clara wanted to do was entertain another one of Leah's extravagant theories. "Yeah," she muttered, then forced a small laugh.

But this time Clara didn't think she was wrong.

Something about this man rubbed her the wrong way.

The man with the scar sat at his table long after his coffee was finished, staring at a newspaper in front of him that he wasn't even reading. Leah had forgotten about him quickly, but Clara looked over to him every so often until he eventually stood up and left.

Maybe she was just overreacting.

So she went back to work, forgetting the interaction even happened. Every so often, she served the diner's new customers, or brought them refills. A few times, she even made more casual conversation with Leah, which the latter seemed to enjoy.

When her shift finally came to an end, Clara packed up her things, said goodbye to Leah, and left.

She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head as she left the diner, and stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. The cloudy sky covered any light the moon had to offer, leaving the dimly lit streets of the neighbourhood in shadows. She was glad the snowy season had passed, but the night's winds still tingled against her face and made white puffs of smoke out of her breath.

It wasn't until she'd walked a few blocks that she realised there was someone behind her.

A man.

Twenty or so meters back. She could hear the sounds of his boots against the pavement. See him out of the corner of her eye as she turned her head ever so slightly. Black jacket and boots. Is it the same creepy guy from the store?

A block later Clara glanced back discreetly once more, only to find now he wasn't alone. There were two of them now.

Where had he come from?

These guys were definitely following her.

She didn't have a bag on her, and her clothes were old and shabby. And if this was the man from before, he'd seen her leaving a shitty job at a diner. The most they would get out of her was pocket change.

So, Clara concluded, unless they were stupid, these men were probably in search of something more than just money.

When the caught sight of three more men waiting across the intersection at the end of the block, she almost skid to a complete stop. Dressed in black like the other two, they stared Clara down in a way that was nothing short of conspicuous. How many more of them were there? She took in a deep breath, trying to calm her now quickening heartbeat. This wasn't some unorganised robbery. Like a predator stalking its prey, they were surrounding her.

She thought about how she would handle them, listening to their footsteps as they seemingly picked up the pace and drew closer to her. She'd been in her fair share of fights before, but five? That was going to cause a scene. If they had knives, or guns? That was a different story. She didn't have plans to get shot anytime soon. The pragmatic voice in her brain had finally decided the ideal course of action.

She was going to run.

Clara slipped around the next corner into an alleyway. Once out of view, she ran as fast as she could down the alleyway and into the next street, where she kept running. There was an unearthly power in her movements, smooth and controlled, but propelling her forward like a dart. One left, two rights. Just to be safe, she followed a path in the opposite direction of her home. She knew the streets of Queens well, and the many nooks and crannies of streets that were all connected in some way or another. There was no way they'd be able to catch up to her, not unless they also had superpowers.

Clara made a sharp turn into the next alleyway, turning backwards momentarily to check behind her. Her heart nearly flew out of her chest when she collided with something.

Not something, someone.

Her next reaction was impulsive. She grabbed the persons forearm and swung them over her shoulders, and watched in short-lived panic as they somehow managed to land smoothly on their feet. In an instant she sent her fist flying into their face. The force of it sent the them flying, their back smacking against the brick wall of the alley.

"Ow! What the Hell—"

In the darkness of the alleyway, Clara struggled to make out his face clearly. But what she could see was the bare legs and arms, and smooth skin surrounding taut stomach muscle. Whoever it was, they were naked— with the exception of plaid boxer shorts. Her mind raced. She'd hit him square on. Even barely at full strength, a normal person wouldn't be standing after that, much less conscious at all. And that was not the voice of a black-van-driving kidnapper. Hell, it wasn't even a man at all. It was the voice of a teenage boy, and one that she had definitely heard before.

"Holy shit! You punch really—" The boy audibly winced. His voice high and in obvious distress. "—really hard."

The boy's tentative hand reached up to feel his bruised cheekbone, and Clara's eyes were now just beginning to adjust fully to the lighting. A familiar red and blue spandex suit lay pooled on the ground beside him, next to a school bag overflowing with clothing.

She turned back to the boy in front of her. Even in her panicked state, she felt her jaw drop in disbelief. Her eyes moved between the boy, and the contents splayed on the floor all around him. Any sense of tension she felt was gone, now replaced by confusion. It was as if a lightbulb had suddenly gone off in her head.

"Peter?"

A/N: Let me know what you thought about this chapter! Any constructive criticism that will help me for future chapters is very welcome :)

It's taken me a while to figure out where I want this story to go so I'm making sure I do all that before I rush into the story and realise that it's too late to go back and change it. I'm really big on building different characters relationships with each other, but now that this chapter's over there'll definitely be more Peter :)

aalicccceee: Thank you so much! That really means a lot so I hope you like where the story goes from here.

Guest: I always think its weird too, a lot of the work I've read jump into relationships within the first three chapters and it always feels so forced and awkward. Thank you for the nice review!