Chapter 7: The First Hour
The sun, when it came, was a liar. It streamed through the grimy window in a cheerful, innocent yellow, painting bright squares on the disaster of the living room floor. It illuminated everything the darkness had kindly hidden: the dark, dried stains on the rug, the crumpled clothing that wasn’t entirely their own, the shattered remains of a coffee mug near the kitchen entrance.
Peter woke first. His body was one solid ache, a deep muscular soreness that had nothing to do with swinging between buildings. It was the ache of violation, of bones and flesh having been reconfigured against their will. The blanket was scratchy against his skin. He was still naked beneath it. The memory crashed back in, not as a dream, but as a visceral replay—the feeling of soft curves, of a different center of gravity, of a mind whiting out into pure, desperate need.
He turned his head. MJ was asleep beside him, curled in a tight ball, her red hair a chaotic spill across a throw pillow they’d dragged down in the night. Her face, in sleep, was peaceful. For a second, it was just his wife. Then he saw the bruise on her hip, the bite mark on her shoulder. His stomach turned.
He moved slowly, like an old man. Every joint protested. He gathered discarded clothes—his boxers, MJ’s torn leggings—and shuffled to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The shower was scalding. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, but the feeling of other hands, of being handled, lingered like a film. He dressed in clean sweats and a t-shirt, the fabric feeling alien and too heavy.
By the time he emerged, steam billowing behind him, MJ was awake. She was sitting up, the blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, staring at the phallus candle on the table. Its wax had pooled into a lewd, lumpy puddle.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gravel.
She didn’t look at him. “Hey.”
“I’m… I’m going to start cleaning up.”
She just nodded, pulling the blanket tighter.
The work was mechanical. It gave his hands something to do. He bagged the empty bottles, the pizza box, the used condoms he found wadded under the couch. He fought the urge to vomit. He rolled up the rug, the worst of it, and shoved it into the hall closet to deal with later. He opened a window. The cold city air cut through the thick, clinging smells, mixing them into something even more nauseating.
MJ moved past him silently, a wraith in a blanket, and went into the bathroom. The lock clicked. The shower ran for a very long time.
When she came out, dressed in an oversized NYU hoodie and sweatpants, her hair damp, she looked more like herself. But her eyes were distant, focused somewhere a thousand miles behind the peeling neon-pink wall.
“Coffee,” she said, not a question. A statement of necessary procedure.
“Yeah. Good.”
The kitchen was a narrow galley, somehow less contaminated. MJ moved on autopilot, filling the carafe, scooping grounds. The mundane sounds were grotesquely normal. The gurgle of the machine. The clink of a spoon.
Peter leaned against the doorframe, watching her. His scientist’s mind was already spinning uselessly, trying to model the magic. A random hour. A Poisson distribution of personal damnation. Could Strange reverse it? Would he? The humiliation of explaining it…
MJ’s hand was on the cabinet, about to pull down two mugs. Her shoulders were tense.
“We’ll figure it out,” Peter said, the words hollow even to him. “We have to. I’ll call… I’ll figure out who to call.”
She nodded again, a short, jerky motion. Her hand tightened on the cabinet handle. Then it went slack.
Her entire posture changed.
The tension—the anger, the horror, the held-in scream—just evaporated. Her shoulders dropped, rounded. Her spine seemed to loosen into a lazy, suggestive curve. She turned from the cabinet, and her face was different.
The sharp, intelligent gleam in her green eyes was gone. It was replaced by a soft, vacant focus, a placid emptiness. A slow, dreamy smile spread across her lips. It was the smile from last night.
“Ooh, coffee,” she said, her voice pitching up, losing its raspy edge, becoming a light, airy bubble. “That’s, like, a super good idea. For, you know, energy.”
Peter froze. His blood turned to ice in his veins. “MJ?”
She didn’t acknowledge her name. She hummed a tuneless little song, turning back to the counter. She picked up the carafe, but her movements were clumsy now, oddly girlish. She poured, splashing hot coffee onto the counter. “Oopsie!” she giggled.
“Mary Jane.” Peter stepped into the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. The random hour. And it wasn’t his. The relief was instantly swallowed by a tidal wave of dread.
She looked at him, finally. Her gaze was warmly inviting, but there was no recognition of him as Peter. He was just a person in the room. A male. Her eyes traveled over him with a simplistic, appreciative leer. “Hey there. You’re, like, really fit. Do you work out?”
The casual, warm tone was worse than any scream. Peter reached for her, his hands hovering, not knowing where to land. “MJ, listen to me. You’re having… it’s the spell. You need to fight it.”
“Spell?” She giggled again, setting the carafe down with a thud. She took a step toward him, her hips swaying with an exaggerated, empty-headed rhythm. “That sounds so magical. I love magic tricks. Especially the ones with the, you know, long wands.” She winked, a grotesque parody of seduction.
Her hand came up, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest. “You feel really strong. Did you want some coffee? I can make it for you. I’m really good at… serving.”
The last word was a purr. The horror was absolute. This was his wife’s body, his wife’s voice, but the consciousness inside was the same simple, pleasure-seeking puppet Felicia had created. The one that had spent hours on that rug.
He grabbed her wrists, gently but firmly. “MJ. Stop. Look at me.”
She looked at their hands, then up at his face, her smile never faltering. She seemed to enjoy the contact. “You wanna play rough? I like that. The other guys last night, they were so rough. It was, like, super intense.” She said it with the same airy ease as someone commenting on the weather.
A white-hot knife of nausea and rage twisted in Peter’s gut. He let go of her wrists as if burned.
“Aw, don’t be shy,” she cooed, leaning closer. Her scent was different—just her usual shampoo, but underpinned by that vacant, eager energy. “We can have so much fun. I don’t really remember last night too good, but my body feels, like, really happy? So it must have been awesome.” Her hand drifted down, patting her own stomach with a childish satisfaction.
Peter backed up, hitting the counter. The reality of the situation locked into place with a cold, final click. This was their life now. For the next… however long this hour lasted, he was a stranger in his own kitchen, babysitting the hollowed-out version of the woman he loved.
And his own hour was still ticking out there somewhere in the day, a hidden landmine in his own skin.
MJ pouted, a mock-sad expression. “You’re no fun. Fine. I’ll just have my coffee then.” She turned, picked up the full mug, and immediately spilled it down the front of her hoodie. “Oops! Silly me.” She laughed, not bothering to wipe it, just looking at the stain with benign curiosity.
Peter watched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He couldn’t web her up. He couldn’t shock her out of it. He just had to wait. He had to stand there and watch the person he loved most in the world be gone, replaced by this smiling, leaking doll.
The clock on the microwave glowed a bright, uncaring green: 9:14 AM.
The hour had just begun.