Chapter Text
The Stark family's Hamptons retreat was more than just a summer house—it was a sanctuary carved into three meticulously landscaped acres on the eastern end of Long Island. Nestled between old-growth oak trees and carefully maintained gardens that Tony had commissioned from a local landscape architect, the modern architectural marvel stood as a testament to their family's need for occasional escape from the relentless pace of New York City.
For Tony Stark and his son, Peter, this was more than just a summer home—it was a cherished refuge. Every year, for two blissful weeks, they retreated from the chaos of Manhattan and the demands of Tony’s public life. Here, they indulged in simple pleasures: Peter spent hours combing the beach for shells or skipping stones across the waves, Tony unwound with a book he’d promised Pepper he’d read months ago, and the pair bickered good-naturedly over which movie to watch at night—Peter always won. The days were a mix of sun-soaked laughter, the scent of salt in the air, and moments of quiet father-son connection.
This summer, however, had come with a minor hiccup. Stark Industries’ biggest charity gala had been rescheduled at the last minute, pushing it into their vacation. Tony had argued fiercely to keep his retreat plans intact, but Pepper had been relentless. “It’s for a good cause, Tony,” she’d said with a look that brooked no argument. “One night won’t kill you. Besides, we’ve already rescheduled it once.”
Pepper practically had to drag him back to Manhattan, promising him that the gala would be quick and painless. “You’ll be back before Peter even has time to miss you,” she’d insisted, a knowing smile softening her words. Tony had reluctantly agreed, though his guilt at leaving Peter alone—even for a few hours—still gnawed at him.
And now, seated in the back of his car, on his way to the event, Tony couldn’t stop fidgeting with his tie. "There’s plenty of leftovers from last night’s dinner," he said, his voice tinged with concern as he balanced the device between his ear and shoulder. "And you’re absolutely sure you’ll be okay by yourself? I’ll be back by midnight.”
"Dad," Peter's eye roll was practically audible through the phone. "I'm fifteen, not five. Besides, FRIDAY's here, and I’ve got enough summer homework to keep me busy until you get back." He strolled into the open-plan kitchen, its sleek marble counters and stainless steel appliances with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the back garden giving the space a sense of airy opulence.
"That's what worries me," Tony teased, eyeing his reflection in the car window as he prepared to step out. "Your version of 'keeping busy' usually involves explosions in my lab. Remember the incident with the particle accelerator?"
"That was one time!" Peter protested, pulling out a plate of lasagna from the fridge. "And technically, nothing exploded."
Tony snorted. ”No, it just created a quantum field that turned all our hair blue for a week."
Peter grinned, sticking the lasagna in the microwave. “Uncle Clint didn’t seem to mind.”
“That’s because Clint doesn’t have enough brain cells left to care,” Tony retorted. His voice softened, and the playful edge faded. "Alright, kiddo. Call me if anything feels off. I don’t care how small it is—a weird noise, a flicker in the lights, anything. Got it?”
Peter recognized this tone. It was Tony's serious dad voice—the one that meant business, the one that carried decades of protective instinct, of having seen too much, of wanting to shield his son from every possible danger. Most teenagers would find it suffocating. Peter found it oddly reassuring.
“Got it,” Peter replied, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "Love you, Dad.”
"Love you too, kiddo." Tony ended the call, though the knot of unease in his chest lingered. He’d triple-checked the estate’s security before leaving, and FRIDAY was more than capable of handling anything that might go wrong. But Tony Stark wasn’t a man who rested easy when it came to his son.
Back in the Hamptons, Peter set his down phone next to his warmed-up lasagna on the kitchen counter and grabbed a fork. The house was quiet. Normally, this was his favorite time of day. The garden bathed in the golden glow of twilight, the sound of waves crashing faintly in the distance, and the knowledge that his dad was just a room away tinkering with some project. Tonight, though, the silence felt heavier, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Outside, the isolation of their retreat became glaringly evident. The nearest neighbor was over a mile away, separated by thick woods that turned pitch black at night. The winding driveway, flanked by dense hedges, felt like the only connection to the rest of the world. Even the distant hum of passing cars was absent. It was just Peter, the house, and the ever-present ocean breeze.
He shrugged off the feeling, digging into the lasagna for a quick bite as he made his way to the living room. The plush leather couch welcomed him as he sank into it, holding his plate steady while the other reached for the remove. The giant wall-mounted TV flickered to life, filling the room with the familiar sounds of Star Wars: A New Hope. For a while, he let himself get lost in the movie, the hum of the air conditioning blending with the distant ocean waves.
Buzz.
The vibration of his phone made him jump. Frowning, he pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the screen. Unknown Number.
He hesitated, Tony’s voice echoing in his head: Don’t answer numbers you don’t recognize. But boredom and curiosity got the better of him.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a deep, distorted voice greeted. "Who am I speaking to?"
Peter frowned, unease creeping into his chest. “Uh, who's asking?"
"Sorry, I must have—uh—is this the Johnson residence?"
Peter rolled his eyes, irritation replacing his discomfort. “No. Wrong number."
"Oh man, my bad,” The voice replied, almost chuckling.
Peter sighed, “No worries. Take it easy.”
“Hey, wait—your voice sounds familiar. Do we know each other?”
Peter’s heart skipped. He glanced at the windows, where his reflection stared back, vulnerable. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
The voice laughed, a low unsettling sound. “Oh, but I do know you.”
Peter's spine stiffened. "Listen," he shot back, a hint of his father's sass bleeding through, "I'm not interested in whatever weird game you're playing. Wrong number, got it?”
"Oh, I'm not playing a game," the voice replied, a chilling undercurrent of amusement threading through the words. "Well, not yet, Peter."
Ice shot through Peter’s veins. “How do you know my name?” he demanded, rising to his feet. He backed toward the security panel on the wall, its sleek touchscreen embedded in the living room. He pulled the phone away. ”FRIDAY," he whispered, "run a security scan."
The AI’s response was garbled, the sound distorted like static. "I’m sorry, Peter. I seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties."
A chill raced down his spine as the voice on the line chuckled. "Looks like Daddy’s fancy AI is taking a little nap. Don’t worry, though. I’m here to keep you company. It’s just you and me.”
Peter swallowed heavily, gripping his phone tightly, causing a painful cramp. ”Yeah? And who exactly is ‘me’?"
The voice purred, slow and deliberate. “Someone who knows everything about you. Someone who’s been watching. Waiting.”
A cold draft seemed to sweep through the room, making Peter shiver. He clenched the phone tighter, his heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear himself speak. “Listen, you pervert,” he snapped, trying to muster the courage his dad would have. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but it’s not funny. Fuck off.”
“Naughty language. What would Captain America say about that? Oh, Petey,” the voice replied, dripping with mockery. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re already playing my game.”
Peter’s stomach twisted. Before he could respond, he brought the phone down and slammed his thumb on the “End Call” button. His chest heaved, each breath shallow and ragged. The oppressive voice was gone, leaving the house in suffocating silence.
Peter quickly scrambled to dial his dad’s number, muttering a shaky prayer under his breath. “Please pick up, please pick up…” The call failed instantly, the words No Service glaring back at him from the screen.
“Come on!” he shouted, his voice cracking. Desperately, he dialed 911, pressing the phone to his ear only to be met with cold, static silence. His hand trembled as he lowered the device, staring at it in disbelief.
Panic clawed at him as he stumbled into the hallway. His eyes darted toward the front door, then the shadowy staircase leading to the upper floor. The darkness loomed like a wall, suffocating and impenetrable. His mind raced. He could try to fix FRIDAY—or run to the neighbors—but both options felt impossibly far away.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated violently in his hand. The sharp buzz jolted him, and he let out a strangled scream, nearly dropping the device. The screen lit up, the words Unknown Caller glaring at him like a cruel reminder.
“No,” Peter whispered, shaking his head violently as the phone buzzed again. “No, no, no…”
His hands trembled as he reluctantly answered, lifting the phone to his ear. “Leave me alone!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
The voice on the other end was no longer playful. It was sharp, venomous, and filled with malice. “Listen, you little shit. Hang up on me again, and Daddy dearest will come home to find his dear baby boy, hanging from a tree, gutted like a fish!”
Peter’s blood ran cold. The phone slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp crack. He stumbled back, pressing himself against the wall, tears spilling down his cheeks as his earlier bravado crumbled.
“FRIDAY,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper, “call Dad. Please, now.”
Silence.