The world had gone quiet. Once, New York was alive with car horns, shouting pedestrians, and the hum of a city that never slept. Now, it was only the sound of the wind weaving through abandoned buildings, broken occasionally by the low, guttural moans of the dead. Peter Parker and Wade Wilson had been surviving together in this desolation for months, scraping by on stolen supplies, brute strength, and sheer stubbornness.

They made an unlikely team. Wade's immortality made him the perfect vanguard against the infected, his reckless energy somehow finding humor even in the apocalypse. Peter, meanwhile, had kept them grounded. He was the strategist, the one who ensured they had shelter, supplies, and a plan. They balanced each other in a way neither of them could explain but both appreciated.

That morning, Peter had woken up before Wade, as usual. He'd watched the sunlight stretch through the boarded-up windows of their makeshift hideout, casting long shadows over the peeling wallpaper. It was peaceful, almost serene—if he ignored the wound on his forearm, hastily wrapped in a strip of cloth torn from his suit.

He hadn't meant to get bitten. It had happened in a scuffle the day before, when a pack of zombies had cornered them in a gas station. Wade had been clearing the way to the back exit, and Peter had held off the stragglers. He'd been distracted for a moment—just a moment—but it was enough. A set of rotting teeth had broken through his suit, scraping skin before he'd managed to kick the creature away.

Peter had hidden the injury immediately. It wasn't hard to keep it from Wade. They both carried enough scars and scrapes that one more wasn't unusual. But now, as he sat there watching Wade snore lightly on the floor, Peter felt the guilt settle in his chest like a stone.

He should tell him. He knew that. Wade deserved to know. But every time Peter opened his mouth to confess, the words stuck in his throat. He didn't want to see the look on Wade's face when he realized Peter wasn't going to make it—when he realized he'd be alone again.

Peter didn't know when Wade had become such a constant in his life, but the thought of leaving him hurt more than the bite ever could.

By the time Wade woke up, Peter had already packed their gear for another move. Wade stretched with an exaggerated groan, rubbing his eyes as he looked over at Peter.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, his voice still gravelly from sleep. "What's the plan today? Scavenge for snacks? Raid a pharmacy? Find a karaoke machine and belt outLivin' on a Prayer?"

Peter forced a smile. "Pharmacy sounds good. We're running low on medical supplies."

Wade yawned and pulled on his gear—a mishmash of tactical armor, weapons, and his signature mask, patched in places where it had torn over the months. "You okay, Spidey? You look... off. More brooding than usual, and that's saying something."

"I'm fine," Peter lied, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Just tired."

Wade gave him a long look but didn't press. "Alright. Let's go."

The pharmacy was only a few blocks away, but the streets were crawling with the infected. Wade, as usual, threw himself into the fray with reckless abandon, slicing through the horde with his katana like a whirlwind of destruction. Peter hung back, covering him with well-aimed web shots and trying not to wince every time his arm throbbed.

By the time they reached the pharmacy, Peter felt like his entire body was on fire. Sweat dripped down his temple as he leaned against the counter, trying to catch his breath.

"Dude, you sure you're okay?" Wade asked, pulling a bottle of aspirin from a shelf. "You're pale. Like, Twilight-level pale."

Peter managed a weak laugh. "I said I'm fine. Let's just grab what we need and go."

Wade frowned but didn't argue, tossing random supplies into his bag. "If you keel over on me, I'm not carrying you. Okay, maybe I'll carry you. But I'll complain the whole time."

Peter didn't respond. He couldn't. The pain was spreading now, clawing up his arm and into his chest. His vision blurred as he stumbled toward the exit, Wade's voice fading into the background.

He didn't remember collapsing, but when Peter opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor of their hideout. Wade hovered over him, his mask pulled back to reveal his scarred face. The worry in his eyes hit Peter like a punch to the gut.

"Peter," Wade said, his voice low and urgent. "What's going on? You're burning up."

Peter swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Wade, I... I got bitten."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. For a moment, Wade just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then he stood up abruptly, pacing the room.

"When?" he demanded. "How long?"

"Yesterday," Peter admitted. "At the gas station."

"Yesterday?!" Wade's voice cracked. "You've been walking around with a zombie bite for a whole day, and you didn't think to mention it?"

"I didn't want to—" Peter broke off, his voice trembling. "I didn't want to put this on you. You've lost enough, Wade."

"Put this on me?" Wade barked a laugh, but it was hollow, bitter. "Peter, you idiot. You're my best friend—hell, you're the only friend I've got left. And you didn't think I'd want to know?"

Peter looked away, shame washing over him. "I'm sorry."

Wade sank to the floor beside him, scrubbing a hand over his face. For once, he didn't have a joke or a quip. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Wade spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "How much time do we have?"

Peter shook his head. "Not long. I can feel it... spreading."

Wade clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "No. No, we're not doing this. We'll find a cure. Or—or I'll put you out of your misery and bring you back. I can do that, right? Death's not permanent for me. Maybe it doesn't have to be for you."

"Wade," Peter said softly, reaching out to grab his arm. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

Wade stared at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "This isn't okay, Pete. None of this is okay."

Peter's vision began to blur again, darkness creeping at the edges. He tried to focus on Wade, on the sound of his voice, but it was slipping away.

"Hey," Wade said, his voice shaking. "Don't you dare check out on me yet. Stay with me, Spidey."

"I'm glad it was you," Peter murmured, his voice barely audible. "I wouldn't have made it this far without you."

And then, the world went dark.

When Peter woke up, the room was quiet. He didn't feel the pain anymore, but there was an emptiness inside him, a hollow hunger. Slowly, he sat up, his movements jerky, unnatural.

Wade was sitting across from him, his mask pulled back on, his katana lying across his lap. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his expression was calm.

"Hey, buddy," Wade said softly. "Looks like you're one of the undead now. Don't worry—I've got your back. Always."

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Somewhere deep inside, a part of him was still Peter Parker, and that part felt an ache that no hunger could erase.