Absolute Spider-Man

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T18:14:43+0000

Hey guys. So this is my first time posting on here. It was at the behest of a few friends to post here. This was a project that I started back in June due to an injury that caused me to break my wrist and be off of work for nearly two months. My friend had been writing SI fics in recent months leading up to this story, and I developed the bug from him.
Spider-Man being my favorite superhero was a logical choice, and frankly there is a lot that I can do with this with relative ease.

I know not everyone will enjoy this, but this is really me and my thoughts as this unfold. So my personality, humor, and everything will be on display.

I do not claim to be out here to please everyone. This is meant to be a fun project that will last for some time.

This world is meant to be a bit more dangerous and fortuitous than normal Spidey continuities. It's going to pull elements from things like TASM, obviously, a little bit of MCU, comics, Noir, Insomniac, the new Ultimate comics and Raimi to just name a few.
Yes, this is inspired a tad bit by the DC Absolute comics with how they've twisted the mythos. This is a slow-burn. I have 26 chapters posted on the other sites, and I will work to get the other 25 chapters posted today and tomorrow. I do not have any romantic pairings figured out yet, but I am letting it develop naturally so that way it doesn't come out of left field. As you know, stories take on a life of their own at times.
Hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: Awakening

Is it normal to think about dying?

Not in a suicidal way—just… in general. Like, is it weird that death crosses my mind more often than I'd care to admit?

I get that it's not something you're supposed to dwell on, not unless something's wrong. But I'm not spiraling, and I'm not planning anything. It's more of a what if than a when.

What happens after? Does anything happen?

I know how that probably sounds, but no—I'm not religious. Parts of my family are, though… the hardcore kid. Christians who bring up the afterlife like it's a weather forecast. Heaven, hell, angels, fire, and brimstone. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Look, I'm not against believing in a higher power. If it gives someone peace, great. But when a person builds their entire personality around what comes after death, it makes you wonder if they're even paying attention to the life they're actually living.

Then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got my alcoholic relatives—the ones who wish they would die. Not because of anything noble or dramatic, but because they've pushed everyone else away and would rather blame the world than take a long, sober look in the mirror.

I get the whole "have a beer after work to relax" thing. I do. But when it turns into double shots of Fireball and screaming threats at your spouse every night—there's gotta be a point where even you realize you're the problem. Right?

Right?

Anyway…

I think about death. More than most people, probably. Not out of fear. Just... curiosity. Is it like a video game where we respawn? Is that why we get déjà vu—leftover save files from a past life? Or is it more like falling asleep—one blink, and then nothing but the dark?

Maybe it's just the way my brain's wired. I've always had an imagination. Since the moment I could hold a pencil, I've been telling stories. It's how I deal—with stress, with life, with everything. Some people meditate. I build worlds.

And maybe, deep down, I always wondered what would happen if I suddenly woke up in one of them.

I didn't grow up like most kids. I was poor, and I was fragile. I don't remember the full name of what I had—juvenile osteo-something. All I know is that I could fall down a single step and break a foot. Not even exaggerating. I was three when it first happened. One stair. Crack. Tiny cast. Congratulations, kid—you're breakable.

So, no sports. No roughhousing. No tag, no football, no wrestling on the trampoline with cousins. I sat on the sidelines with my Game Boy while everyone else played. It's why I fell into stories—video games, books, comic books. Worlds where I could be more than what my bones would let me be.

I was the odd kid. The weird one. Hell, go ahead and call me the quiet kid. It's not like it'd be the first time. I've literally had a false gun threat made against me before. Yeah. That kind of "quiet."

When I hit a growth spurt, my body didn't mess around. Thirty pounds. Every time. Boom—new stretch marks, new t-shirts that didn't fit. I'm not ashamed of my weight, not really, but I do wish I would've moved more as a kid. Maybe it would've softened the bullying. Maybe not. Either way, I would've killed to just walk into a store and find a 2X shirt that fit right.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a shirt in my size most days?

I shouldn't have to go to Amazon just to find a damn shirt.

My point is—I spent most of my life leaning away from the world I was in, and burying myself in ones that weren't real. Alternate worlds. Safer worlds. And now I'm twenty-four, and most days I can barely hold a life together outside of work.

I want to write. I want to spend time with my family. But I'm always tired. Doesn't matter if I'm clocked in or on the couch—I never really feel rested.

Mom says I should take a break from my hobbies and just... relax. But it's hard to break old habits, especially the ones that helped keep you sane. Harder still when the thing that exhausts you most is the part you can't walk away from.

Case in point: the drive to work.

I'm crossing the bridge on the interstate, and on paper it all seems simple enough. Just another ten-hour shift. Just another round of dealing with an asshole manager who probably couldn't run a toaster without supervision. Compared to that, going home sounds like a vacation in Bali.

The radio's on, but nothing sounds good. 103.7's blaring country music again, and of course it's that one song. "We're all in the same boat," or whatever the hell it's called. Too chipper. Too fake. I hate every damn second of it.

I flip between 99.7 and 101.3, hoping for something—anything—but it's just more recycled noise. Olivia Rodrigo again. The fifth time this week. I swear the next teenage heartbreak anthem I hear might be the one that breaks me.

Finally, I give up and open Spotify. The second 'Afterlife' by Evanescence kicks in, my brain hits autopilot. Amy Lee's voice drowns the rest of the world out, and for a moment, the weight eases off my shoulders.

The road curves ahead. I lean into it without thinking.

And then the sun disappears—just for a split second—as something massive pulls into the lane ahead.

A semi-truck. Close. Closer than it should be.

I react—foot slamming toward the brake, hands jerking the wheel—but it's like trying to move underwater. I'm too slow. The trailer clips the front of my car, and suddenly I'm not driving anymore—I'm spinning.

The world goes sideways. Colors smear. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless, floating in a tilt-a-whirl of sound and steel.

Then everything hits.

Pain erupts across my chest as the seatbelt tightens like a fist. Tires shriek against asphalt. Metal groans and screams and folds. I'm dimly aware of my own voice, raw and rising in a sound I didn't know I could make.

The car lurches, twists—once, twice—and then something gives.

And then it stops.

I hang there, still strapped in, the world sideways. Blood's in my mouth. The radio's still playing, softly now, as if nothing just happened.

I'm dangling from my seat like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

I can't breathe.

Each inhale feels like trying to pull air through broken glass—sharp, shallow, and wrong. My chest tightens, ribs screaming with every twitch. There's a catch, deep and jagged, like something inside me shifted out of place.

Panic kicks in before logic can. I try again—short breath, sharper pain. Again—worse. My fingers scrabble at the seatbelt like that'll help, like I can claw the pressure off my chest. The strap's digging into my shoulder, holding me like a vise.

Why can't I breathe?

The windshield's a spider web of cracks. Sunlight filters through fractured beams. There's smoke—or maybe steam—rising from somewhere. It smells like metal and engine oil and something burnt.

I think I hear voices. Or maybe it's the ringing in my ears.

Everything's fuzzy. Distant. Like my brain's buffering.

I blink. Once. Twice. But the world stays sideways.

"J-Jonny…" I barely gasp out my brother's name. I promised to take him to a movie this weekend. Another superhero movie that probably wouldn't live up to the hype, but it didn't matter for him. He enjoyed those, and I liked seeing him happy.

I was supposed to take him…

But I can't hear anything now. Not the road. Not the sirens I hope are coming. There's just this high, static hum in my ears, like the world is muting itself.

My hands won't move. My legs feel like they're somewhere else.

And my eyes—God, my eyes—everything's getting dim. Like someone's pulling the curtain down, inch by inch. The light's there, but it's fading, fuzzed at the edges.

It's cold, no… I'm cold.

Shit, am—am I dying?

No, no, no… I don't want to die, not like this.

No matter how much I want to change the fact, the dark was still coming, and I don't know how to stop it.

By the time I see anyone coming down the hill toward me, it's too late. Everything went black.

I should be dead.

That's my first thought—slow and heavy, like my brain's still booting up and fumbling for a keyboard that isn't there. I should be dead. I felt it.

I shouldn't be able to hear anything… but I do.

It's not music, screeching tires, or even screaming. It's… beeping. A steady, rhythmic blip somewhere close by—not frantic or panicked. It's just there, like a metronome refusing to stop, oblivious to the fact that time should have. The sound is practically pounding in my ear drums now, sharp and mechanical—utterly maddening in its steadiness.

I can't open my eyes. It hurts to even try. My eyelids feel like they've been sewn shut with wire, stitched down tight by someone in a hurry, who didn't care about pain.

So, I focus on what I can hear for the moment. There's machinery around me, that's for sure. That damn beeping, the slow, insistent ticking of a clock, and a fluorescent hum buzzing over my head, droning like a fly trapped in a light fixture for days.

None of this makes sense.

I remember the crash. I remember the glass shattering, the seat belt tightening around my ribs like a fist made of steel. The airbag exploding with a deafening thump I felt in my teeth. I remember the sound of my own voice clawing its way out of my throat. I remember not being able to breathe, my chest caving in, my lungs folding like paper. Most of all, I remember everything going dark.

That should have been it.

But this… this isn't the end.

It doesn't feel like the end.

Wherever or whatever this is, it's not dark and certainly not quiet.

I suck in a breath, and my nose wrinkles on instinct. There's chemicals in the air, sharp and synthetic, the kind that cling to your throat. It stings, if I breathe too deep. It's like the aftermath of a deep clean on a Saturday morning.

Everything about it screams sterile, but underneath it… there's something else.

Perfume. Way too much perfume. I recognize it well enough, the kind of overpowering floral cloud that older women weaponize on a daily basis, thick and sweet enough to choke a horse. It cuts through the antiseptic air like it owns the place.

Someone's here.

I force my eyes open. It's slow. They feel crusted over, like I slept for a week with sand packed under my eyelids. The light hits hard—too sharp and white, and for a second, I regret trying to do so. As much as I'd like to close my eyes, the perfume is too much to ignore.

The ceiling, as I blink everything into focus, is covered in plain tiles and flickering fluorescent lights—just like I figured. There's a hairline crack running through the plaster like a half-finished thought, and I can't help but let out a dry, half-laugh. It kind of looks how I feel—barely holding together.

It's only now, really looking around, that it clicks.

I'm in a hospital.

So, I guess I'm not dead. If I am, then the afterlife's got budget issues.

There's movement out of the corner of my eye, just to my left. I barely turn my head and see someone sitting there. Not facing me. Just hunched over, elbows on knees, like they've been camping out for days, waiting.

It's a woman. She's staring down at a table on her lap, eyes flicking between the monitors around me.

I try to speak. My throat fights me on it. Feels like I swallowed a fistful of gravel. I get one sound out—more of a croak than a word.

That's all it takes.

She jerks up, looking at me. Her voice is softer than I expected. She's in her late thirties, maybe? I haven't been good at telling people's ages in a few years—not since twelve year olds suddenly started looking like twenty-four year olds.

"Peter?"

She sounds relieved, but my eyes narrow at the name.

Who the hell is Peter?

I don't say that. I can't. My mouth still isn't playing ball, and my head's spinning too fast to catch up.

She leans in, and I catch a better look. From the white coat, she's definitely a doctor. I've never seen her before, but she's looking at me like she knows me. Poor lady looks wiped. Dark circles, tired eyes, that kind of worry that comes from running on empty. And here I am, taking up her time. Because of course I am. Even lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, I still feel bad for being an inconvenience. I fucking hate being the center of attention.

I shouldn't cuss, it's not like I mean to. It's become a part of who I am, really. Anyway, I don't like the look she's giving me. It's too warm, too familiar.

My chest tightens. I feel my heart begin to race, and sure enough, the monitor beside me starts beeping faster, like it's snitching.

Everything feels wrong, not like a nightmare, or even a dream. It just, it just feels off.

"Wh-who are you?" I ask.

The words scrape out rough, like they had to claw their way up from the bottom of my lungs. My voice doesn't sound right. It's too light, too young.

The woman blinks. Apparently, whatever she expected me to say, it wasn't that.

Her lips part, then press into a thin line like she's choosing her next words with tweezers.

"I'm Dr. Halperin," she says finally. "You're in Queens Medical. Peter, do you remember what happened?"

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. At least, not at first.

Because yeah, I remember the crash, but Queens Medical? That doesn't make sense… I wasn't even in New York. I was just entering…

Oh god, my head.

My heart's still hammering and the monitor's ratting me out with every beat.

She leans in a little closer.

"Peter… it's okay. You're safe."

There it is again.

Peter.

I swallow hard.

Something's wrong. Really, really wrong.

"C-can I…" I start, then stop. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and static. "Can I use the bathr—bathroom?"

The words scrape out, brittle and too high-pitched. I sound like I'm trying to sneak out of class, not figure out if I've lost my damn mind.

Dr. Halperin tilts her head, that same sad-eyed concern still plastered across her face like she's trying to keep me calm without showing just how worried she actually is.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says gently. "You've been out of it for a while."

"A while?"

My voice is thinner now. My chest's tightening up like a vise, like someone's pouring cement into my lungs.

"H-how long?"

She hesitates. I catch the flick of her eyes toward the machines—maybe hoping one of them will answer for her. Then she sighs, like the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.

"Three weeks, kiddo."

Suddenly it feels like the crash all over again, unforgiving and heavy.

Three weeks?

That can't be right. That doesn't make any sense.

My head spins again. The hospital room's suddenly colder. Too cold. I glance down at the blanket over me like I just now remembered I have a body. My hands—smaller than they should be. Narrower wrists. Arms that don't feel like mine.

I flex my fingers under the sheet. Slowly. Like I'm checking if they'll obey.

They do. But they still don't look right.

She's watching me now, but not like I'm crazy—more like she's waiting. Like there's some answer I'm supposed to give her. Some reaction she already has a script for.

I don't give it.

Instead, I whisper, "You're sure?"

Her expression softens, but it's not reassuring. It's more like pity dressed in scrubs.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter."

I flinch… actually flinch, because there it is again.

Peter.

Whoever that is… it's not me.

I don't mean to move, it just… happens. Somewhere between the buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my chest, my legs twitch under the blanket, and then I'm shifting, swinging one over the edge of the bed like it's the most natural thing in the world—even though nothing about this feels natural.

Dr. Halperin is up in a flash, fast enough to make the chair behind her rattle against the wall.

"Peter—wait. Stop," she says, but I'm not listening. "You shouldn't—"

I don't stop. I can't. I don't even know if my legs will hold me, but I've got to try. I can't just lie here and pretend this is fine. I can't pretend like this is real. I don't know why she's calling me Peter, but I need to move.

The floor tilts the second my foot touches down, like stepping onto a boat that's already sinking. My knees buckle, and everything aches in a way that's somehow deep and shallow at the same time. It's like my muscles have forgotten everything.

She reaches for me, hands gentle but firm, trying not to spook me. Unfortunately, it's not working.

"Hey–hey," she looks into my eyes, bending down enough to block my path. "You've been in a coma. You can't just—"

"I need to," I whisper.

It comes out cracked and desperate. It hurts my throat, but I barely managed to get it out. I don't know if it was loud enough that she heard me.

But I look at her—really look—and hope that something in my face tells her what my voice can't. I'm not trying to be brave, stupid, or dramatic. I just… I can't lay down anymore.

For a second, she just holds my arm.

Then her grip softens. Her lips press into that same thin line from earlier—calculating, weighing something behind her eyes.

"Okay," she says quietly. "We'll go slow."

She doesn't believe I'm ready, and frankly… she's right.

But she's also not stopping me.

I grip the side of the bed like a lifeline, grounding myself as the room spins just enough to make my stomach threaten mutiny. It's like the whole place just took a lazy tilt to the left, and my insides weren't invited to brace for it.

But I breathe through it—short, shaky pulls of air—jaw clenched, blinking hard to clear the static fuzzing around the edges of my vision.

My hand finds hers—Dr. Halperin's—mostly for balance, partly because letting go of anything feels like a bad idea right now. She tenses under my grip, probably worried I'll eat pavement right here in front of her, but she doesn't pull away.

I reach out with my other hand and grab onto the IV cart I'm still tethered to. The whole thing wobbles under my weight with a nervous squeak. Tubes tug gently at my arm like they're not used to this kind of rebellion, like they'd rather I just laid down and behaved.

Not today. One step, that's all I need.

I just need one step to prove that I'm not dreaming, or if I am… it's the kind of dream that wakes you up when you fall.

I shift my foot forward. The tile's cold under my toes, real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. My knees shake like they're made of wet cardboard, but I don't drop. Not yet. Not when I'm this close.

Dr. Halperin is right there, her free hand hovering near my back, ready to catch me—or drag me back if I go down.

But I don't go down.

Not yet.

Just one step.

It lands shakily, but solid enough that I'm okay with it. I want to laugh, because it feels and looks like a newborn deer who swears they've got it under control. My legs feel like they're running on thirty-second delays—every muscle answering late, like they forgot the assignment.

Dr. Halperin moves in closer. She doesn't say anything—just slips her arm under mine and takes some of the weight like this is something she's done before. Like she knows better than to argue with someone dangling off the edge of what the hell is happening. I don't thank her. I don't have the breath for it. But I don't shake her off either. Fair trade.

We shuffle forward together, her leading the way like a chaperone for someone who forgot how to human. The IV cart stutters beside me, plastic wheels clicking over the tile in nervous little bursts, like it knows it's not supposed to be part of this trip.

My head feels like it's underwater now. Every step makes the pressure tighten—like there's a balloon inflating behind my eyes and it's just itching to pop. The hallway tilts. I blink, trying to get my bearings, but the walls feel farther away than they should be.

There's pain—but it's not from moving. It's not in my ribs or my limbs or even from the tight pull of the IV. No, it's that heavy, sleep-deprived, bone-deep ache I get when everything's too loud and too bright and my brain's starting to sound like radio static in a fish tank.

Don't tell me I'm getting a migraine.

Seriously.

That's the last damn thing I need.

I grip tighter onto the IV pole, white-knuckled, like that's going to do anything but make my joints pop. I'm breathing through my teeth now—trying to make it slow, trying to not let her know just how close I am to going limp in her arms.

"You're doing okay," she murmurs. She's trying to be reassuring, but it's just one more thing for my brain to process, and right now that feels like asking a busted computer to run Photoshop on dial-up.

I don't respond. I can't.

But my feet keep moving. Somehow.

We make it to the bathroom, and she pushes the door open with her hip, guiding me inside like I'm some glass figurine she's terrified of dropping. The tiles in here are somehow colder than the hallway, and the lighting? Too damn white. Everything's buzzing, humming, pressing in like the walls are one inch too close to my shoulders.

I stop just inside, gripping the sink to keep from slumping down the wall.

"I'll be right outside," she says softly, letting go of my arm.

I nod. Maybe. Or at least I think I do.

The door clicks shut behind her, and for the first time since I woke up, I'm alone.

Sort of.

The second the door clicks shut, I grip the sink like it's gonna anchor me to something real. Cold porcelain, metal edges, the faint stink of disinfectant and too many panicked hands—it all comes rushing in, too fast and too sharp.

I finally look down at myself. Really look.

My arms are… slender. That's the only word I can think of.

My hands are thinner. Fingers a little longer than I remember.

My sight's still fuzzy, like I've got sleep stuck in the corners of my eyes. I blink a few times, hard, trying to will it away. Nothing clears.

I'm hallucinating. I have to be.

Three weeks in a hospital bed and my arms got this skinny? No. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works.

My heart's beating faster now. I feel it, thumping hard against my ribs like it's looking for an exit. I glance down again—and that's when it really starts to hit me.

The hospital gown? It's hanging on me like it was made for someone else. Someone smaller.

There's no looseness, no sag like my body's trying to catch up from weight loss. It's just gone. The softness I carried around like a second skin? Gone. No stretch marks folding in on themselves. No leftover proof of three hundred pounds.

And my legs. Jesus. My legs are the kind of skinny I used to give Griffin shit for. Even on leg day, the man had NBA player legs—wiry and unfairly functional. There was a reason I called him 'chicken legs' after all.

My legs are shaking, but no longer from fatigue. It's panic now… pure adrenaline.

I look down at the little plastic ID bracelet, somehow knowing what I'm going to see. Despite the fact I know, my stomach still clenches like a fist as I read it:

Parker, Peter B.

Wh-what the hell?

No. No, no, no. That's not my name.

I whip my head up toward the mirror, and just like that—my heart drops out of my throat and swan dives into my stomach, taking every last ounce of oxygen with it.

It's not my face staring back.

The reflection blinking at me looks like he just stepped out of a movie trailer.

Brown hair, tousled and messy but somehow looks good. Big eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline that could make razors jealous.

Holy shit.

It's like I'm looking at Andrew Garfield's face. No, wait… it's not exactly him, it's like I'm looking at a comic book come to life

This can't be real. I'm… I'm in Spider-Man's body. Not as a cosplay, not as a fan film, or even a dream… because I know when I'm dreaming.

I am literally standing in the bathroom of a real-life hospital inside the goddamn body of Peter freaking Parker.

I grab the sink harder. My fingers dig into the ceramic like maybe I can squeeze sanity out of it if I just hold tight enough. I don't know if I'm about to pass out or scream or laugh until I puke all over the tile.

Then it creeps in, the darkness.

I blink hard. Once. Twice. I shake my head, hoping it'll help. It doesn't. The buzzing's back too—high-pitched and buried somewhere deep in my ears, like tinnitus from a concert I don't remember going to.

"C'mon," I whisper to myself, like I've got any say in the matter.

I brace my weight harder into the sink. Try to breathe. But my chest's too tight, and the room won't stop gently tilting like I'm on a ferry and the sea hates me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, willing the blur to sharpen, but the mirror's already swimming.

My knees buckle, and my hands slip. Whatever grip I had on the sink is gone. The last thing I feel is the floor rushing up to meet me.

That is the end of chapter 1! As mentioned before, I will be posting the following chapters throughout today and tomorrow.
This story is cross-posted on FF and Ao3.
If you would like to join the discord server for all of my stories (they will be posted here eventually):

Arsenalverse: https://discord.gg/dQkeJPkxdD
If you would like to support my writing and get up to 5 chapters early, you can do so here:

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

Next chapter should be up in about two-three hours once I get back from my physical therapy!

Nicohals J Westerberg · 2025-12-03T20:50:27+0000

Nice start! Im going to go over to A03 to read the rest lol

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:52:00+0000

Nicohals J Westerberg said:
Nice start! Im going to go over to A03 to read the rest lol

Glad you liked it. I'm working on posting more chapters here right now lol

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:54:54+0000

When I finally come to, I'm back in the hospital bed—but this time, the world isn't spinning like a roulette wheel. My head still feels like it's swimming, but at least I feel like I have a life vest on. I have to double-check the wristband again, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It still says Peter Parker on the tag.

It wasn't a dream. I'm really in the body of my favorite superhero. I've dreamt about being Spider-Man so many nights, but I never thought I'd wake up as him one day. My thoughts are clearer, and accepting this reality feels possible now, even if I don't want to. For all the times I joked about trading lives, I was actually good with mine. Flawed? Yeah. But it was mine. I was tired, occasionally got angry, but that's just par for the course.

This… this body, being so light in comparison to the ME I'm used to, it's weird. I don't even know how to describe it other than I feel weightless. I move easier. I can actually lie on my back without my spine yelling at me. That alone is throwing me. In school, I used to hunch over my desk like a turtle, like maybe shrinking myself would make me disappear. All that did was give me a hunchback and extra back problems. I'd almost gotten that sorted out by the time I hit twenty-four, but this is surreal. No pain, no knots… nothing.

Yes, I feel stiff, but I imagine anyone would after what, a three week coma? That's what Dr…. ugh, what's her name? Halperin? That sounds right. Dr. Halperin said I was out for three weeks, or rather Peter was.

My left hand was bandaged, and based on what I knew about Spider-Man meant only one thing…

The spider bite…

It happened.

And that's the weirdest part. I've seen every version of Peter getting his powers—movies, comics, fan art, you name it.

Sometimes he passes out overnight and wakes up shredded. Sometimes it hits instantly, like flipping a switch. Sometimes it creeps in over a couple days. But a three-week coma? That's new.

And now a darker thought creeps in. One I really don't want to think about.

What if this isn't regular Spider-Man? What if this is one of the horror versions? You know the ones—Peter starts off fine, but the powers warp him. Turn him into something monstrous…

Man-Spider.

In the version of that scenario I've seen, he kills Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

Please tell me that's not where this is going.

Please.

I could spiral into the infinite ways this could go bad, since that's one of the few things I can do while confined to a hospital bed. I don't think I've had a good experience in hospitals. I doubt anyone really has, unless there was a birth involved.

Because of how fragile I was as a kid, I was in and out of the ER more than I'd care to admit. Broken foot, ankle, wrist… ankle again… it was a vicious cycle that lasted up until I was about fourteen.

I even wrinkled a bone in my wrist once. Yeah—wrinkled. The doctor looked at the x-ray and said I'd basically turned the bone into an accordion. Still not sure how that's medically possible, but given my track record, it felt on-brand.

My bones were basically Play-Doh with a grudge.

Only difference? Play-Doh doesn't scream when you move it.

On top of that, I lost my grandma to lung cancer the day before my ninth birthday.

There's nothing to make light of there.

When you watch someone fade away in real time—tubes down her throat just so she can eat, no strength left to even write you a note—it changes something in you.

She couldn't talk. She couldn't even smile near the end.

And when you're that young, you don't fully understand what's happening. But you feel it. You feel the silence. The helplessness. The way grief swallows the room before anyone even says the word.

I was a lot more aware than other kids my age. Because of the fact that I couldn't be as physically active as everyone else could, I absorbed whatever media I could get my hands on. Death came up a lot, even at that age. I'd lost a couple of dogs before, so I knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. Despite what anyone might say, they were family.

Losing Grandma, though? It hit different.

I don't remember her voice, and that haunts me every day. There's not a day I didn't want her back. When she was there, things were easier. Not financially—we still struggled—but emotionally? She made the hard stuff feel survivable. Nothing seemed impossible when she was there.

So, maybe that's why I hate hospitals. Because the last memory I have of my grandma is her fading away in one.

Self-wallowing won't do any good, though. I need to figure things out. If I really am in some version of the Marvel Universe, then please—please—let it be one with all the players on the field.
I don't want to be stuck in one of those Sony-brand hellscapes where Spidey's the only guy in tights and the biggest threat is a goo monster with emotional issues.
Give me Avengers. Give me X-Men. Give me options.

Because if I'm in a real Marvel world…
Maybe—maybe—there's a way back.
If I'm not officially dead, maybe I can find some universe-hopping wizard, tech genius, or multiversal GPS to get me home.

Even if I can't go back… I just want to make sure everyone is okay.

It's weird to think that, for once, those impossible escapes from reality—those comic book "what ifs" and multiverse plot twists—might actually be possible.

I used to read those stories to escape the feeling of being stuck. Now I'm in one, and somehow, I still feel it. I still feel stuck, though now it's between two worlds. It honestly feels like a dream I can't wake from. I should be terrified, worried, or even possibly just a tad bit cautious about this. Right now, though… despite all the darker possibilities running through my head, I'm in a world of superheroes. Superpowers are real… and if I really am Peter Parker now, then I should be getting powers of my own.

It's wishful thinking, but if I don't try to think about the possibility of going home right now, I might just lose it.

By the time I finally come out of my thoughts, Dr. Halperin is back and knocking on the door. I feel bad for making her help me to the bathroom. I shouldn't have been up so quickly, not right after coming out of a coma.

New body or not, it was a bad decision on my part. I'm just glad I'm a lot lighter than I used to be, because I can't imagine she would have been able to help by herself if it'd been my original body.

She's got two people with her. An older man with salt and peppered hair— Uncle Ben I assume—and an older woman with faded reddish-brown hair wearing glasses— Aunt May.

That's going to be weird to get used to, but it's not like I've got much of a choice in the matter. They're Peter's relatives, or I guess they're now mine. It's going to be weird, calling them Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Weirder still, thinking of them as family.

This isn't a game. I can't just treat them like NPCs in a well-scripted cutscene. They've got lives, emotions, and a history of their own. I can't just pull up a codex and see their biographies.

They look tired. I recognize the look well enough. It's the kind of the tired where sleep doesn't help, because it's not a physical thing. They're emotionally drained.

"Hey Peter," Dr. Halperin smiles softly, stepping aside so I can properly see them. "Your aunt and uncle are here."

Uncle Ben gives a cautious smile, walking around to my right. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. Even through the hospital gown fabric, I can feel the callous on his hand as it wraps around my shoulder. Despite the fact I know this is someone else, I can't help but see my grandfather in him. I've always seen my grandpa in Ben.

"You gave us quite the scare, Pete." Ben says, and despite the fact he's trying to put on a brave face, I can hear the shake in his voice. This terrified him…

From the moment I watched the first Spider-Man with Tobey Maguire, Uncle Ben always reminded me of my grandpa. He played a similar role to my grandpa… I didn't have my dad around. I was lucky that he was even there for my conception, but beyond that… the closest thing I had to a dad was my grandpa. For Peter, Ben acted as his father figure.

Despite the fact this wasn't my grandpa, I can't lie and say that I didn't feel a bit better with Ben here. It made it a little easier for me to pretend that everything was okay.

"I-I'm sorry," I croak out, my voice straining as I try to answer. It's an awful combination of cottonmouth and this scratchy, burning sensation that even bothers me when I try to swallow. "I didn't mean to sc-scare you."

Ben's hand gives my shoulder one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. There's something quiet about the way he moves—like he doesn't want to risk startling me, or worse, hurting me.

It's the way you approach someone fragile.

"I know you didn't, kiddo," he says, smile softening just a little. "But when the hospital calls and says your nephew collapsed during a school trip… and he doesn't wake up for weeks, it comes with the territory."

Aunt May steps forward next. She doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at me, like she's trying to memorize every line of my face before I can disappear again. Her eyes are puffy, like she's cried more than once recently, and her lips tremble just a bit before she bites them together.

I'm so busy taking in her appearance that I didn't realize she was leaning down to hug me.

It's awkward with the wires and the IV in my hand and the god-awful stiffness in my back, but I don't move. I just let her hug me, because something about the way she was holding me—tight, but cautiously as though I might crack—hit me way harder than I expected.

Her voice is muffled in my shoulder, but I can hear her clearly.

"Don't ever do that again, Peter. Please."

I don't know what to say.

I'm not him, but… I am.

So I do the only thing I can: I hug her back.

It's a shaky gesture. Weak. But it's enough.

"I'll try," I whisper, because anything more would be a lie.

May pulls back slowly, brushing at her eyes like she's blaming the hospital lights for the tears. She forces a small laugh, and it's brittle around the edges.

"You must be starving. Dr. Halperin said you might be able to start on solid food today. Should I run and grab you something? Or do you still hate hospital pudding?"

The question catches me off-guard.

Does Peter hate hospital pudding? What if I say the wrong thing?

I stall with a smile.

"I think I could eat just about anything right now. Even the pudding."

She laughs again—genuinely this time, though still fragile.

"Well, we'll take that as a sign you're on the mend."

Ben chuckles too, but I catch that flicker in his eyes again. The worry hasn't left, and I don't think it will for a long time.

I nod, playing along like I'm just another kid trying to reassure his family. Inside though, I'm spinning. If I'm going to stay in this world… if I'm going to be Peter now… I have to do more than remember my own past.

I'm going to have to learn his.

Dr. Halperin checks her tablet again but doesn't interrupt, giving us a moment. Her eyes flick from me to May, then to Ben, like she's silently measuring something less clinical than vitals—grief levels, maybe. Shock. Emotional strain.

"Well," she finally says, "if you're up for food, we'll start slow. Pudding first, then real solids if that sits okay. I'll go put in the request."

May looks like she's about to offer to grab something from the cafeteria anyway, but Ben gently tugs at her sleeve.

"Let them do their job, hon. Why don't we take a second to breathe?"

May hesitates, then nods, pressing her lips into a tight line. She brushes her fingers through my hair—just a little—before turning toward the door with Dr. Halperin.

And just like that, it's just me and Ben.

The silence stretches for a beat. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy.

Ben stays by my side, but his hand drifts from my shoulder to the rail of the hospital bed. He runs his thumb along it, absentmindedly. Like he needs to keep touching something—maybe just to prove to both of us that I'm still here.

"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, voice low but steady.

"Tired." I reply, managing a dry chuckle that sounds more like sandpaper on cement. "I k-know I shouldn't, but…"

I trail off, because honestly? I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I shouldn't feel tired after three weeks of unconsciousness? I shouldn't still feel like a stranger in this skin? I shouldn't be here?

I bite back the spiral, because it doesn't matter. I can't say any of that out loud without sounding insane.

From Peter's perspective, he's been asleep for weeks. But from mine? It feels like I just got here. Like I blinked and the world changed—like dying hit pause on my life and someone else's hit play.

And yet… all things considered, I feel good for a dead man. Not great advertising for reincarnation, but hey—no flaming pits of torment, so I'll take that as a win.

"It's to be expected." Ben says with that calm reassurance that he seems to carry in his back pocket. Even as he offers the words, I can tell he doesn't believe them, not fully. "Lord knows hospitals'll do that to you."

He smiles, soft and crooked, like he's trying to sell the idea that all of this is just a really bad nap in a really uncomfortable bed. I almost want to believe him. It's easier than trying to unpack the existential hell I've fallen into.

I look at him—really look at him—and see the lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his beard, the tired kindness he wears like armor. I remember this version of Uncle Ben. From movies. Comics. Stories. But this one's different, somehow. Realer. He breathes. He worries. His hand's still resting on the bed rail like it might anchor both of us.

"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, like he's afraid to jinx it.

And I almost tell him the truth—that I'm not okay, not really. That I don't even know what "okay" means anymore. But instead, I just nod. Because sometimes, pretending is all you've got.

And right now? I need the pretend to hold a little longer.

"Me too," I chuff lowly, unsure whether he can hear me.

When May and Dr. Halperin returned with the pudding, I learned something very quickly. I don't like hospital pudding.

In fact, I might fucking hate it.

The first spoonful hits my tongue with all the appeal of chalk paste pretending to be chocolate. There's this weird, slimy texture that clings to my mouth like it's trying to stake a claim, and the taste? Somehow both bland and bitter, like someone tried to simulate flavor using only despair and expired cocoa powder.

But I already committed. So, I swallow it.

Barely.

My face twists immediately. Eyebrows pulling together, nose scrunching like I just licked a tire iron, and my jaw sort of seizes like it's staging a protest. I look like someone just told me Jar Jar Binks is canonically a Sith Lord and I have to accept it.

May doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Her lips twitch. Then she lets out this breathy little laugh—not quite surprised, not quite smug. Just quietly delighted.

"So… I'm taking that as a no?"

I blink at her, still trying to scrape the taste out of my mouth with nothing but willpower and betrayal.

"It tastes like sadness," I croak, reaching for the little plastic cup of water like it's holy. "Was this supposed to be chocolate? Because I think chocolate should sue."

I haven't been this disturbed since I drank that one "space" flavored Coca-Cola. I shiver at the memory, but the worst part is I can't decide which tasted worse.

May grins, trying—and failing—to look sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," she giggles, and I don't hide my displeasure.

Dr. Halperin hides a smile behind her tablet, clearly enjoying the show.

"You're not the first patient to say that. Unfortunately, the pudding stays until we're sure your stomach can handle more than IV fluids and sarcasm."

"I'd rather eat the sarcasm," I mutter, swishing the water around like it might exorcise the taste.

Ben chuckles softly from his corner.

"He hasn't lost his sense of humor."

May pats my arm gently, trying not to laugh harder.

"Alright, smartmouth. I'll see what I can do about sneaking in something edible."

"If you smuggle in a Cherry Pop-Tart, I'll love you forever," I say without hesitation.

May raises an eyebrow like she's filing that away.

"Noted."

I lean back against the pillow, relieved the taste is fading and hoping I won't end up dying again from the pudding. I swear, if this is how Peter went out, I'm gonna be pissed.

I need to get a decent meal in me. Something real. Something with weight and grease and seasoning that doesn't taste like it was filtered through medical-grade regret. I'm a fat kid at heart. Always have been. I don't care what this new body looks like—I can feel the craving in my soul. I need a good, home-cooked meal. Or hell, just a halfway decent burger. Something sloppy. Messy. Dripping with cheese and bad decisions.

Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the trauma. Or maybe dying really does reset your metabolism. But right now? Right now, I'd punch God in the throat for a Five Guys double with bacon and Cajun fries.

Dr. Halperin's still tapping something into her tablet, probably noting that I'm lucid enough to complain but not lucid enough to avoid swearing at pudding. "We'll keep it light for now," she says. "Maybe broth later, and if that sits okay, we'll try something more substantial tomorrow."

Broth.

Because nothing says "welcome back to life" like hot, salty water pretending it used to be food.

I close my eyes, breathing out through my nose, trying not to get cranky about it. I know they're just doing their jobs. But it's hard to focus on recovery when your taste buds are filing a class-action lawsuit.

Still, May's watching me with that warm, tired smile that moms have when they're trying to be strong for you, and Ben hasn't moved from his spot—still resting a hand on the rail like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll vanish.

So I bite back the snark. Just for a second. I give them the smile they need to see.

Even if all I'm thinking is: Please, someone get me a burger before I lose my damn mind.

"Peter, I'd like to ask you some questions." Dr. Halperin says, breaking me out of my thoughts. May and Ben take seats, their expressions changing to something more serious.

Dr. Halperin says it like she's asking if I've got a minute to talk about my car's extended warranty—calm, rehearsed, but not entirely without compassion. It's the tone doctors use when they're about to gently unpack the part where your life stopped making sense.

May straightens in her chair. Ben shifts forward, fingers lacing together between his knees. Both of them suddenly look like they're bracing for turbulence.

I nod slowly, propping myself up a little higher against the pillows, the cheap plastic rustling like it's protesting the movement.

"Shoot."

Dr. Halperin glances at her tablet, then looks me in the eye.

"What's your name?"

I almost say my real name, but catch myself at the last second. This is going to be a problem, I can already tell.

"Peter… Peter Parker."

"What's your middle name?"

"Benjamin." I say, looking at Ben.

"Good," Dr. Halperin smiles. "How old are you?"

I hadn't considered that to be honest. If it was like most of Spidey's origins, I'd probably be fourteen, fifteen at most. My voice is light enough that I'm willing to bet fourteen.

"F-fourteen?" I ask, the hesitation in my voice more apparent than I intended. Doc looks at me with a raised brow, scanning over me as though I gave the wrong answer. My heart's pounding in my ears as she glares at me. Hell, I half expect to catch on fire based off of how warm my face just became.

"Where do you live?" she continues, not telling me whether I was right or wrong. That's concerning…

"Queens."

That's easy enough to know… especially since she told me that I'm in Queens Medical.

Dr. Halperin nods, jotting something down with a practiced flick of her stylus. The tap-tap against the tablet screen feels way too official for a question that simple. My palms are sweating again.

Ben shifts beside the bed like he wants to say something, but doesn't. May's watching me like I might float away if she blinks too long.

"What's your street address?"

My heart drops into my stomach… FUCK. I don't know Peter's home address.

I freeze.

"What's your street address?" Dr. Halperin repeats, like it's just another checkbox on her clipboard and not the exact question that could blow everything up.

My brain goes into full DEFCON 1 panic. C'mon, man, THINK. You've read Spider-Man comics since you were a kid. You've seen the movies. The cartoons. The memes. Just remember—what street does Aunt May live on? Come on, come on, COME ON—

Nothing.

Blank slate.

The only address floating to the top of my brain is my old one. The one with the bad paint job and the creaky AC unit that sounded like a dying goat every summer.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

"Uh…"

I can't lie… there's no easy way out of this. Shit… here goes nothing.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"Peter?" May asks, her voice swimming with worry.

"That's okay, how about this… what's your phone number?"

has officially stopped responding.

My face probably looks like someone just asked me to recite the periodic table backwards in Swahili. My brain is spinning its wheels in wet cement, and Dr. Halperin is just watching. Calm. Collected. Ruthless.

She asks again, gentle but unwavering. "Your phone number?"

May leans forward a little, her hand brushing my arm. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Just try."

I want to scream. Not because she's being pushy—she isn't. But because I can't. I have no idea what Peter Parker's phone number is. I never needed to know. What kind of nerd memorizes the fictional cell number of a comic book character?

Okay, actually, probably a few of my friends. But not me.

"I—I don't remember that either," I mutter, and this time, I don't even bother trying to fake a headache. I just look at the ceiling like it might give me divine intervention and a data plan.

Dr. Halperin nods slowly, jotting something down again. That stylus sounds louder than it should. Every tap feels like a judgment.

"Memory loss is common in trauma cases," she says calmly, but her eyes flick toward May and Ben like she's already doing mental calculus. "Especially with a head injury. We'll run some additional scans, just to be safe."

May's face crumples slightly. Not panicked—just worried. That quiet, aching sort of worry that moms wear when they're trying to be a wall but feel like a window.

Ben rubs the back of his neck. "He's been through hell, Doc. Isn't this kind of thing… normal?"

"It can be," Dr. Halperin says. She offers a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But the inconsistencies are something I want to keep an eye on."

My stomach twists. Inconsistencies. That's a word that sounds way too close to liar for comfort.

She rises from her seat.

"I'm going to give you a little more time to rest. We'll talk again soon."

She walks out, her steps annoyingly soft.

May doesn't say anything right away. Neither does Ben. The silence stretches long enough that I feel like I need to say something before the air pressure in the room crushes me.

"Sorry," I mumble.

May shakes her head gently. "You don't need to be sorry for being hurt."

I nod like that makes sense, but it doesn't. Because I'm not just hurt. I'm an intruder in Peter Parker's life, trying to wear it like a hand-me-down hoodie that's two sizes too tight and smells like someone else's detergent.

Ben finally speaks, voice low.

"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Just rest for now."

I let my head fall back against the pillow and try not to pass out from stress. But, there's one thing I have to know, even if it makes them more uncomfortable.

"Hey May…" I call her name, her eyes meeting mine. "Was I right? Am I fourteen?"

She laughs so softly that it's barely noticeable.

"Yes, dear… you were right."

"Sweet," I chuckle. "I'm disappointed in myself, though… fifty percent on a test?"

Ben pats my shoulder, and I close my eyes, the dark taking me once more.

The next time I come to, the light slanting through the blinds looks different—sharper, more golden. Afternoon, maybe. My body feels a little less like it's been scraped off a New York sidewalk and a little more like… well, like I might survive this mess.

That illusion dies the second Dr. Halperin walks back in with a clipboard and a face that says she's about to serve up another helping of bad news.

More scans. More questions. A memory test where I forget which president is current and answer with Obama.

Spoiler: It wasn't Obama.

By the time she wraps it up, I feel like someone's shaken my brain like a Magic 8-Ball and the only thing floating to the top is try again later.

Dr. Halperin sits down beside my bed.

"Peter… based on the results, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. That means your brain is having trouble accessing memories from before the accident."

"Great," I mutter, "so I've got Swiss cheese for a brain."

Ben, sitting nearby with a book he hasn't turned a page in for the last twenty minutes, leans forward. "How long does that kind of thing last?"

"It varies," she says gently. "Some patients regain everything within days. For others, it's a slower process. Sometimes memories return in pieces. Other times… not at all."

May's gone still again. She's got that same statue-stillness she had earlier, the one where you know she's screaming inside but refuses to let it show on her face.

Dr. Halperin offers a reassuring smile, but I can see the caution in it. She's hopeful, not confident.

"I'll monitor you closely. For now, just focus on healing. Stress won't help your memory, but rest might."

"So… until further notice, I'm just a soft-reboot Peter Parker." I try for a joke, because what else do you do when someone tells you your brain's rolled a natural one?

May finally lets out a breath, like she'd been holding it for hours.

"You're still you, sweetheart."

"Let's just focus on the bright side. You remember your name, your town, and your age. You recognize your aunt and uncle… that's a good sign."

Dr. Halperin stands.

"I'll let the two of you stay a bit longer. Just don't wear him out too much."

As she leaves, I exhale and stare up at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. They don't give me any. All they provide is dust, fluorescent buzz, and the faint feeling I'm in the worst game of charades ever, and the clue is my entire life.

Still, as weird as it sounds, this retrograde amnesia thing might be the best-case scenario. Well, not for them, obviously. May looks like she's aged a decade in a day, and Ben's pretending that book's got more going on than a blank journal. For me, it works in my favor.

If they think the scrambled mess in my head is just trauma? Then every time I screw up a memory, hesitate on a name, don't know Peter's locker combo or favorite cereal—it all gets swept under the rug. I don't need to pretend to be Peter, I just have to try and remember all the versions of him I grew up with.

I mean, yeah… I am Peter, but I'm also not. I don't need to match his walk, his talk, or nerdy charm like it's some high-stakes impression contest. There's no pressure to suddenly become Midtown High's golden science boy overnight. I get to be a kid with a blank slate.

Which—if I'm being honest—is still better than waking up in a ditch, or y'know… dead.

I let my eyes drift back toward May and Ben. She's smoothing the wrinkles out of her purse strap like she's trying to iron out the chaos. Ben's watching me with this quiet, grounding calm, like he's ready to catch me if I fall again.

They're strangers, technically. But they don't look at me like one. They look at me like they'd carry the weight of the whole damn city if it meant I'd be okay.

So yeah, I might not remember Peter's street address or favorite pizza toppings. But I know this much already: I'm not alone.

The dreams don't come all at once. They drift in like fog—soft and shapeless, full of voices I should know but can't quite place. There's warmth there. Laughter. The scent of something homemade wafting through a kitchen I'll never see again. But when I wake up, it's gone. And in its place is that hollowness. That quiet ache in my chest like someone pressed a thumb into my sternum and never took it away.

I sit up slowly. The room is quiet—too quiet—and empty. May and Ben are gone, probably grabbing coffee or trying not to hover too much. Good. I need a minute to myself.

My eyes land on the bandage wrapped around my left hand. It doesn't itch, but I need to see what the damage is. If this really was from the spider bite, then I want, no, need to see it for myself. It feels like this is somehow going to make it all real for me, but even I know that's not how that works.

It's not going to be a situation where I see a blotchy red spot on my hand, and all my problems are going to get solved. It'd just be nice to know what the hell to expect. Halperin would probably chastise me for removing the bandages, but I don't really care.

Once I get it removed, I pause. I don't know what I was really expecting. Three weeks is plenty of time for a spider bite to disappear, especially a genetically altered spider that grants super powers.

There's nothing dramatic beneath it. No glowing veins or alien mandibles sprouting from my palm. It's just skin—smooth, clean, maybe a little pale, but it's skin. There's a faint, barely-there mark, like a freckle that lost its way. There's nothing else there.

"...Huh," I click my tongue.

Three weeks. That's what she said. That's plenty of time for bruises and a spider bite to vanish.

Despite that, my gut doesn't buy it.

Do I even have powers? Peter should've felt them in the first few days. The wall-crawling, the strength, the danger-sense. That was the lore. But if that's true, then where the hell does that leave me? What if I'm just… some guy in Peter's skin, minus the package deal?

And more importantly—why the hell am I worrying about that now?

I'm still in a hospital bed. Still in someone else's life. Whether or not I can stick to walls or bench-press a Buick doesn't matter if I can't even walk out the front door yet.

I sigh, shake my head, and start wrapping the hand again. This time it's looser, uneven—definitely not up to medical standards. But unless someone's grading my gauze technique, it'll do.

I lean back into the pillows, closing my eyes, trying to let go of the weight in my chest.

I didn't sleep well in my old life, and even if it's just one time, I'd like to have a good night's sleep.

It takes a few more days before they finally clear me for release, and I honestly can't tell if that's good news or just the universe flipping a coin and shrugging. You'd think I'd be excited—getting out of the hospital, moving forward, being able to see something other than bland walls and over-enthusiastic motivational posters. But instead, there's this weird pit in my stomach, like I'm stepping off the edge of something I can't see the bottom of.

The hospital bed sucked—too firm, too sterile, like it was designed to punish spines—but it gave me this illusion that I was just visiting someone else's life. That I could just wake up, watch the story unfold, and pretend I was behind the glass instead of in the frame. Just some weird little interactive drama where I could poke the glass and watch the plot thicken.

But now? Now I'm being fitted back into Peter Parker's life like a replacement bulb. Slipping into a loose gray sweatshirt that still smells faintly of a detergent I don't remember buying, followed by a polo shirt that's seen better, brighter days—probably back when mall kiosks were still selling "Keep Calm" merch unironically. May insisted I stay warm. She kept handing me layers like I was made of glass and this walk to the car was the Iditarod. I didn't argue. Partly because I'm not dumb, and partly because I think it comforts her to fuss.

And honestly… I'm not sure what's worse: pretending to be Peter, or the fact that pretending's starting to feel like less of a stretch.

I could joke. I want to joke. Say it's all just a bad dream. That I'll wake up any second and find out I'm still in my apartment, still behind on bills, still arguing with my reflection. But the truth is, I'm walking out of this hospital not as me, but as Peter Parker.

And I can't tell if that's a blessing, a curse… or just the start of something I'm not ready for.

Maybe all of the above.

There's a knock on the door as I pick up the glasses. I don't turn—I'm too busy debating whether I should put them on. Peter Parker wore glasses before the bite, and afterward, he didn't need them anymore.

Me? I wore glasses. They were mostly reading glasses to help fix an astigmatism, but I could see without them just fine. There were days I needed to wear them to stave off a migraine, but hopefully I won't need to worry about that anymore.

Still, though… this version of Peter wore glasses. So I put them on. A little costume piece to keep the illusion going. My vision doesn't warp, sharpen, or suddenly become HD. If anything, things look a bit clearer—but only in the most disappointing way possible.

Nothing about the spider has been as I expected it to be. No powers, no dramatic awakening, not even a proper scar to brood over. Just silence. Like the universe forgot to finish the job. The doctors said I was lucky, as the spider that bit me was poisonous. They're attributing the amnesia to a combination of the spider's venom and hitting my head on the way down. I was, ugh… Peter was thrown into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, the full nine yards.

I feel bad for Peter's classmates. That kind of thing sticks with you. One second a kid's sitting beside you, the next he's foaming at the mouth like something out of a horror flick. Hard to forget. Harder to explain.

"Hey, Peter… are you okay?" May's voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to face her. I had almost forgotten she was knocking on the door when I grabbed the glasses.

"Y-yeah." The smile comes easier than it should. "Where's Uncle Ben?"

Did I mention it was weird calling them Aunt May and Uncle Ben? Because it is.

"He's grabbing the car. Are you ready to go home?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Go home? That's a loaded question, May. I want to go home—to my life. The one before the car accident. But the only home I've got now? It belongs to someone else. Someone I used to look up to. Which, yeah… sounds cool on paper. So what am I even complaining about?

Who gets to say that they got a second chance at life as their favorite superhero?

So, am I ready to go home?

Fuck it.

"Yeah, I am."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:57:53+0000

The ride from the hospital to what was apparently "home" held my attention more than you'd expect.

Before the accident—before all this—I'd only ever been to two states. Never made it to New York. Never saw the skyline in person or felt the weight of the city pressing in from every direction. My life wasn't tragic or anything, but let's be real: growing up broke meant vacations were never part of the plan. We lived comfortably enough to survive—not explore.

Now here I was, riding through Queens like a tourist trapped in someone else's skin.

May was talking. I caught the cadence of her voice more than the words—soft, warm, the kind of tone people use when they're trying to make someone feel safe. I think she said something about picking up soup, or maybe stopping by the pharmacy. Possibly both. I wasn't really listening.

It was hard to focus on anything but the city outside the window. Brick buildings, tangled fire escapes, rows of parked cars lined up like metallic dominoes. I'd seen Queens before—in movies, in games—but this was different. This was real. And it was my hometown now, apparently.

Whether I wanted it or not.

"You alright, Pete? You're awfully quiet back there," Ben called out, his voice cutting through the silence. It jolted me a little—like being pulled up from underwater. It's a sensation I'm unfortunately starting to get used to.

Getting used to responding to that name is going to be difficult.

"Hmm?" I blinked, dragging my eyes away from a row of corner shops we'd just passed. For a second, I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right.

May glanced over her shoulder with a warmth I wasn't sure I deserved.

"You're quiet, dear."

"Yeah—sorry. Just… tired," I said, defaulting to the universal excuse for emotional weirdness. It came out easy enough. And it wasn't exactly a lie, either.

Ben gave a small nod in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking back to the road.

"That's fair. You've certainly earned the right to be."

That was one way to put it. You've earned the right to be tired by nearly dying, Pete.

Yeah. Calling myself that still feels weird. The name buzzed through my nerves like static—familiar, but wrong. It's hard to describe, other than this: the name fits like a jacket left behind on a hook—your size, maybe even your color, but someone else wore it first. Someone who had a life. Friends. Memories. A future… and now it was mine.

I think Ben noticed how stiff I'd gone, because after a pause, he cleared his throat gently and said, "We'll be home shortly. Then you can get some rest in your own bed."

Your own bed.

Right. That somehow made it weirder.

From the little interaction I'd had so far with Ben, May, and even Dr. Halperin, one thing was already crystal clear:

Peter still had the Parker luck.

The kind that wasn't just bad—it was cosmic. Stubborn. The universe-on-hard-mode kind of luck.

He'd been in and out of hospitals more times than anyone could probably count. Scrapes, broken bones, sickness—maybe worse. I didn't have the full picture, but it didn't take much to start connecting dots. The way May's voice had trembled just a bit when she mentioned rest. The way Ben kept glancing at me like he was checking to make sure I was still breathing.

And then there was Dr. Halperin—Peter's family doctor, apparently. That explained the familiarity in her voice, the concern that felt a little too practiced. Not the kind of worry you give a stranger.

No. That was the kind of worry that only came from watching a kid get hurt too often.

What concerned me most was the conversation I'd accidentally eavesdropped on between Ben and May.

Even in a different body, my uncanny ability to overhear stuff I was never supposed to hear had apparently made the jump with me. Which is hilarious, considering half the time if I'm trying to pay attention, I can't tell what the hell people are saying.

But that night in the hospital, their voices carried. Quiet, but clear. May had mentioned an illness Peter had when he was younger—something serious enough that it still haunted her. And now, she was worried the coma might be connected to it.

That's the part that's been gnawing at me.

Dr. Halperin brought up the spider's venom as a possible factor in my amnesia, (how the hell they came up with that, I don't know, but I'm not complaining) but they keep talking like it hadn't happened.

I hate being treated like I'm not in the room, and it's worse now that I'm in Peter's shoes, because I feel like a spectator. I sigh under my breath, looking back to the street. I need to relax some.

Ben and May are just worried about their nephew, and I'm playing catch up. Right now, I just need to get my bearings and settle in until I can figure out what the hell is going on. I do have a plan, but it's not as ambitious as some of my friends would be. Some would be planning on attaining godhood, but that's not me.

No, I'm going for a simpler route to start things off.

Step One: I need to learn more about Peter.

If I'm taking over his life, I need to know more about him. Ben thinks I'm going to get rest when I go in my room, but I'm going to be digging into Peter's… my past.

Step Two: Figure out who Peter's friend group is.

From the versions of Peter Parker I am familiar with, I'm looking at about four to five names being on the list: Harry Osborn, Mary Jane Watson, Gwen Stacy, Ned Leeds, and Flash Thompson. Flash is generally more frenemy than friend, especially in high school, but I'm not removing the possibility of this world playing out different

Step Three: Figure out what kind of Marvel universe I'm in.

That's going to tell me how bad things could potentially get. Is this a grounded one, or do the Celestials show up on Tuesdays? The stakes depend entirely on what kind of cosmic circus I've landed in.

Step Four—arguably the most important if I want to survive whatever's coming: I need to figure out how to make web shooters.

I'm willing to bet I don't have organic webbing in the cards, so if I do start developing powers, I'll need gear. That means I need to figure out the web fluid formula and create the web shooters from scratch.

Peter might be a science nerd, but I'm not. I wasn't a great student, so unless I'm lucky enough to inherit his brains, I've got some catching up to do. Thankfully, when it's important and something that catches my attention, I'm a quick learner.

And let's be honest: figuring out how to swing between buildings like a human bungee cord? Yeah. That's got my full attention.

The car slowed as we turned off the main road, slipping into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood that looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies—maybe even earlier. Every house had its own flavor of wear and tear, like they were aging gracefully into the background of someone else's story.

And then we pulled up to the house.

It was a two-story place with faded yellow siding and white trim that had long since surrendered to a kind of soft gray grime. The front porch sagged ever so slightly at the left corner, like it had a bum knee, and the roof tiles looked like they'd seen one too many Northeastern winters. But the big bay window out front still had a charm to it, framed with old lace curtains that swayed gently in the breeze coming off the street.

It looked… lived-in. The kind of house that felt real. No pre-fab cookie-cutter suburbia facade.

The front yard was modest but kept—patchy grass that had clearly been fought for and won, a narrow path of cracked concrete leading up to the steps. A weather-worn bike leaned against the porch railing, rust nipping at the frame. A wind chime made from old silverware clinked quietly near the screen door, dancing lazily in the breeze. For some reason, that detail stuck with me. It felt like something May made.

It wasn't the kind of house you'd stop to admire. But looking at it from the backseat, heart still weirdly rattling in my chest, it felt like a place someone could heal in.

"Home sweet home," Ben said as he put the car in park, the engine ticking gently as it cooled.

May turned back to me, offering a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—but not for lack of trying.

"You remember it, Peter?" she asked carefully, like the answer might either make her day or break her heart.

I swallowed, glancing back at the house.

Lie or truth?

"…It looks familiar," I said, and technically that wasn't false. I'd seen versions of it in comics, movies—hell, I knew what this was supposed to be. But standing here, seeing it with a real sky above and the scent of cut grass in the air?

That was new.

May's smile softened, and Ben opened his door with a grunt. The moment shattered as the cool air outside rushed in, and I climbed out onto the cement.

I'm looking up at the house a bit too long when Ben places a hand on my shoulder, smiling brightly.

"Come on, slugger. I bet you're hungry."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a low, gurgling betrayal that echoed just enough in the quiet street to be embarrassing.

"…Traitor," I muttered under my breath.

It's only now that I realize… I still haven't gotten that damn burger I wanted. May, ever the MVP, had managed to sneak me a Pop-Tart in her purse—bless her—but that was more emotional support than nutritional sustenance.

Ben chuckled at the sound and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

"We've got leftovers inside, or I can whip something up. Nothing fancy, but better than hospital food."

He started up the walkway, and I followed, my legs suddenly aware of just how not okay today had been. My joints ached like I'd run a marathon, and everything inside me felt like it was running on fumes and adrenaline. The worst part of all of this was that I hadn't done much today beyond getting discharged.

Still... stepping up toward that weathered porch made something click. The creak of the boards underfoot, the way the house seemed to exhale in the breeze—it grounded me. Like a glitch in the simulation finally corrected itself. For the first time since I woke up as Peter, I felt like myself again.

"Can you cook a couple burgers?" I asked, my voice scratchy but hopeful.

Ben looked over his shoulder with an easy grin.

"I'll start the grill."

The front door shut behind us with a soft click, and I caught the low rustle of Ben slipping off his jacket. He tossed it casually over the back of a kitchen chair like it belonged there. The air inside was warm, with a coziness that you couldn't fake with scented candles and throw pillows. It smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and something sweet from earlier—maybe the remnants of a pie May had made, or cookies from a neighbor. I didn't know. Either way it was nice.

May's hand gently touched my elbow.

"Let's get you upstairs, sweetheart."

I nod, but I'm barely paying attention again. My eyes were already drifting around the space as she started to lead me toward the stairs.

The living room was sunlit and soft, the furniture worn but in good condition. There was a quilt tossed over the arm of the couch, and an old lamp beside it with a crack in the base that someone had carefully glued back together.

Then there were the photos that caught my attention.

They were everywhere. Lining the hallway, clustered on the wall of the staircase—each one, a snapshot of a life I was supposed to remember.

One frame caught my attention—a young Peter, probably five or six, cheeks puffed out as he blew into a birthday cake, frosting smeared at the corner of his mouth. Ben was leaned in over his shoulder in the background, caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled with joy. His hair was darker, lacking any sign of gray then.

Next to it, a picture of Peter riding a bicycle, arms wobbling, teeth clenched in determination. The background was slightly blurred, but I could make out May cheering from the porch. He must've just learned to ride. I felt something hitch in my chest as I remembered my first time on a bike. I remember falling, skinning my knee, and crying like a baby. I was lucky I didn't break a bone with how fragile I was back then. I think that was one of the reasons I never actually learned to ride a bike, and my lack of a center of balance. The picture though, felt like it could have actually been my first time riding… in that regard, Peter was luckier than me.

I glanced toward the kitchen, where Ben was rustling through a drawer, probably looking for a long lighter to fire up the grill.

May was already halfway up the stairs, motioning for me to follow.

"Come on, honey. I want to make sure your room's just the way you remember."

As I followed, more pictures met me on the way up. A younger May and Ben stood together on a bridge in one—arms looped around each other, faces glowing with the kind of love you don't see much anymore. I paused for a moment in front of it, taking it in. I hoped someday I could have something like that. It reminded me of the photo of my grandparents when they went to New York one summer. They'd stopped in front of a waterfall and took a photo. It was the one I got etched onto a necklace. Always and forever…

Ben and May reminded me of them so much that it physically hurt.

Further up, a larger frame hung above the landing. It was a family portrait—Peter, May, and Ben all standing together in matching sweaters, the kind people wear just for the photo and regret immediately afterward. Peter was maybe ten or eleven, skinny with a big smile. He looked… happy.

The one thing I notice more than anything else is what wasn't on the walls. There were no photos of Richard and Mary Parker. No baby photos with them. No framed vacations or goofy Christmas cards. That was the running theme in Peter's life across every version I knew: the people who brought him into the world were never the ones who raised him.

I suppose I know what that feels like, after all. I didn't know my father until I was eleven, and even then, he was a stranger. That's part of the reason I stand by the belief that family isn't just whose blood runs in your veins, it's the ones who are willing to stand with you when nobody else would.

Ben and May were there when it mattered. They were there when Peter cried himself to sleep at five years old, confused about why his parents weren't coming back. It hits me as I reach the door to Peter's room. Why do I know Peter was only five when they left? I shouldn't know that.

Not unless I was there, but I wasn't.

So why do I remember it like I was there?

I can feel the weight of the silence in that bedroom. The way the nightlight cast soft shadows on the ceiling. The muffled sobs he tried to bury in his pillow, too young to understand why the world was falling apart.

I remember the pajama pants with dinosaurs on them. The way he hugged that worn-out teddy bear, missing half an ear. The way May's hand smoothed over his hair, slow and calming. The way Ben stood in the doorway, helpless, one hand clutching the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from falling in, too.

I shouldn't remember any of that.

That scares the hell out of me.

It's not just empathy. It's not imagination or educated guesses… it's an actual piece of Peter's life.

As May opened the door for me, I stepped into Peter's room like I was crossing a line I wasn't sure I had the right to cross. Not because it was off-limits—May had waved me in without hesitation—but because this space felt private in a way that made me instinctively tread lighter.

It was small. That was the first thing I noticed. Not cramped, but definitely modest. A single window faced the street, half-covered by blinds tilted just enough to let in the overcast morning light.

A desk sat under it, cluttered with notebooks and paperbacks and a mess of pens—some with caps, some chewed down at the ends. A laptop rested in the middle, lid closed, the corners dinged up from years of use. There were a few stickers on the casing, most of them curling at the edges: NASA, a faded Mets logo, a couple of scuffed science puns only a high schooler would think were clever.

The bed was unmade, in the way that only a teenager's bed can be—blanket half-pulled up, pillow pushed against the wall like it had been used to prop up a back during a long night of reading or scrolling or thinking too hard. The sheets were plain—pale blue and softened by time, with a frayed edge visible near the foot. No cartoon characters, no brand names. Just fabric that looked like it had been through a lot of nights both good and bad.

A tall, leaning bookshelf took up the opposite wall, stuffed tight with paperbacks that ran the gamut from science fiction to nonfiction to the occasional weathered classic. A copy of Fahrenheit 451 had clearly been read more than once—its spine was warped and its corners curled like old toast. Right beside it, The Martian leaned on a thick high school chemistry textbook, bookmarked with a train ticket. On the bottom shelf, a stack of yellowing National Geographics towered over a binder full of loose-leaf notes, corners sticking out at odd angles.

Above the shelf, taped with peeling Scotch tape, were a few small drawings—nothing polished, just scraps of printer paper with sketches in graphite and pen. A rocketship, messy and a little lopsided. A doodle of the New York skyline with tiny stick figures and arrows labeled things like "bagel cart" and "rush hour."

The closet door was cracked open, and inside I spotted a few stacked shoeboxes, one labeled School Stuff in Sharpie, another Wires & Junk, and one with just a smiley face drawn on the lid. A pair of beat-up Converse sat askew next to them—one untied, one without a lace. Nearby, a dark green hoodie was slumped over a rolling chair, the fabric bunched and sleeves tangled like it had been shrugged off mid-thought.

There weren't many decorations. Nothing that looked like it was meant for show. No trophies, no ribbons, no posters of bands or celebrities or sports stars. No selfies taped to mirrors. No lights strung up to make it aesthetic.

It felt like my room, believe it or not. Minus the comic and anime posters I had littered around my room, the photos of my cousins, me and my mom, my childhood dog that I lost when I was seven or eight, and the collection of funko pops I'd bought over the course of four years.

On the nightstand, a small alarm clock blinked the wrong time. A copy of Of Mice and Men rested beneath it, dog-eared halfway through. Beside that, a photo frame faced the bed. It held an image of Peter with Ben and May—Peter still young, maybe eight, grinning with a missing front tooth while Ben stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder and the other holding up two ice cream cones. May leaned in from the side, her hair windblown, her eyes half-closed from laughing. It wasn't a posed photo. Someone had snapped it while they were in motion, and that made it better somehow.

I wondered who took the photo, but I figured it wasn't important.

I looked around again, slower this time.

There were things here that told you who Peter was, like the way the books had been read and re-read. The frayed sleeves of the hoodie. The crooked stack of school notebooks with bent covers. It scared me how quickly I wanted this to feel like mine. Like maybe if I stayed quiet long enough, the room would forget Peter and just become mine instead. A few tweaks to make this place my own, but overall… I liked it here.

May had been standing there in the doorway for a minute, watching me intently as I examined everything. By the time I turned around, I could tell she knew I didn't remember the room and its contents. I gave her a soft smile, barely enough to curl the corners of my lips. I wasn't sure what to say.

"Dr. Halperin said it might take a while for everything to start coming back…" She said it softly, like someone whispering to a ghost they weren't sure was still listening.

"May…" I call her name softly. She raises her eyes to meet mine, and for a brief moment, I can't help but hesitate. I want to ask a question, but I'm not sure how to ask it without making her feel worse. That memory of Peter reeling from his parents leaving… it's itching at the back of my head. "Are my parents alive?"

She doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches—thick, uncomfortable. Like we're both waiting for the same elevator that just refuses to show up. May's eyes flicked to a photo on the dresser—Peter on Ben's shoulders at Coney Island, cotton candy in hand, wind in his hair. She didn't cry, but her throat bobbed once like she was swallowing a wave. Her gaze drops to the floor, and I can see her thumb rubbing at her palm, slow and nervous.

"They…" She finally replied, her voice uneven. "They died. A long time ago. Plane crash, down in South America. Your dad was on assignment for Oscorp. Your mom went with him."

She says it gently, like she's trying not to crush something fragile.

And here's the weird part—I feel something. Not like my grief. Not the grief of the guy who died in a Cadillac a few days ago. This is something else–like a ripple in the back of my skull. A sensation that shouldn't be mine, but clings anyway. A boy reeling from abandonment. A door closing. A pair of silhouettes walking away and never coming back. It's not a memory I own… but it still stings like one.

"I don't remember them," I say before I can stop myself. It's true. I mean, I remember that feeling—Peter's—but not their faces. Not their voices. Not the way they laughed or fought or how it felt to be their kid.

May's eyes soften like she gets it. Like she's seen that fog in someone else before.

"They loved you. I want you to know that." Her voice wavers, but she powers through. "They were good people. Brilliant. Brave. They would've been so proud."

I nod, but it feels like I'm nodding for someone else. I feel like a trespasser at a funeral, mourning ghosts I never got to meet.

"Thanks," I smile. "Can you let me know when the food's ready? I want to get into something a little more comfortable."

May hesitated at the doorway, eyes flicking once more around the room before settling back on me. Whatever she saw on my face—grief, confusion, that aching loss that wasn't mine but lived in me now—she didn't try to explain it away. She just gave a small, gentle nod and stepped back.

"I'll call you when it's ready," she said. "Take your time, sweetheart."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was alone.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I didn't feel like someone was watching. No nurse with a clipboard. No kind-eyed doctor prodding gently at the edges of my identity. No Ben, trying to act casual but clearly watching me like a hawk for signs of recognition. No May, tiptoeing around my confusion like she might scare it into hiding.

Just me…

I walked over to the desk and slipped off the glasses. The world didn't blur so much as soften—like the lens I'd been looking through had vanished, leaving everything just slightly less sharp, less clinical. I set the glasses down carefully beside the laptop, next to a pen with its cap long gone and a scrawled sticky note that read Chem Quiz Thursday — ugh.

Then I peeled off the clothes.

They felt like someone else's skin—too stiff, too clean, like a costume for a role I hadn't auditioned for. That's something I'd need to change too, if I could get the money to do so. Peter's clothes were never fancy. A lot of what he had were hand-me-downs and Good Will purchases.

I don't mind seeing Peter wear geeky outfits, as long as it's actually him wearing them. It's not my personal taste. The moment I get a chance, I'm going to get something more personalized. Nothing 'dark and edgy' by any means, but I do like darker clothing.

I dropped them into a small hamper tucked between the closet and the desk, then turned to the wardrobe.

The doors creaked as I opened them. I smile as my point is proven more by its contents. Inside was a modest row of clothes: T-shirts in every shade of faded; button-downs for school presentations, probably; a couple of hoodies worn thin at the cuffs. Pants, mostly jeans, some with knees blown out.

I dug around a little until I found a pair of sweatpants—dark gray, soft to the touch, drawstring a bit frayed at the end. I pulled them on and found a T-shirt to go with it—a heather blue one with a slightly stretched collar and the word "PHYSICS" printed in cracked white lettering across the chest. It was a little loose, like Peter had either outgrown it or liked the oversized feel. Either way, it draped over my frame with a weird comfort I didn't expect.

Though, I would have opted for a tank top.

Once I shut the door and turned around, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser.

It was Peter, of course. His face. His angles. His messy hair that needed a cut but somehow made sense the way it was. But without the glasses, in the casual clothes, barefoot on the wooden floor… he looked more like a blank slate.

A pause in the story. A kid caught mid-sentence.

I didn't look like I belonged in a hospital bed anymore. I looked like someone that was home from school early, maybe. Someone who should be finishing an essay or scrolling through a phone.

I stepped away from the mirror and wandered to the bookshelf again. Ran my fingers across the dog-eared spines. The Fahrenheit 451 paperback leaned against its neighbor like it needed the support, and I couldn't help but mutter under my breath, "We burn books, then ask why the world is dark."

Peter had highlighted that line. I don't know how I know that. I just… do.

My hand hovered over the train ticket stuck in The Martian. I traced the edge without pulling it out. For a second, I wanted to open it, to flip through the pages and see where Peter had stopped, what notes he might've scribbled in the margins. But I held back. It felt too intimate. Like reading someone's diary.

I moved back to the bed and sat down. The mattress gave beneath me with a soft sigh, springs adjusting to a familiar weight they didn't realize wasn't here anymore.

I leaned back until my spine met the mattress in full, legs still hanging off the edge. And that was the weird part. It didn't hurt. No strain across my lower back, no pressure point between my shoulders, no fidgeting to find the right angle just to breathe easy.

It should've felt like a luxury, but mostly it just felt…off. Comfortable in a way my old body never was, and that comfort carried a kind of grief in it. Like the ache I didn't have anymore was still echoing in my memory, waiting to remind me who I wasn't.

But I could get used to this. The thought came quieter than expected, like it didn't want to draw too much attention to itself.

I used to carry myself like a truck in a narrow lane, always a little too much for the space I was in. Beds creaked, plastic chairs tested their limits, and my spine was a daily complaint after a long shift. Now, though? I could lie flat and breathe easily. The springs beneath me didn't groan… they adapted to my frame.

Yeah, not bad at all.

"Peter!" came May's voice from downstairs. "Food's ready."

"Be down in a second!" I called back, climbing to my feet. I could already smell the burgers, and all I could think was… finally.

I grabbed my glasses and was out the door a few seconds later.

That evening, I sat cross-legged on Peter's bedroom floor, back propped against the foot of the bed, laptop perched on the comforter beside me. The screen glowed dim in the low light, its fan humming softly, the only real sound in the room apart from the faint traffic buzz outside the window.

The folders were…dense. "School Projects," "Ideas," "Blueprints," "Chem Notes," "Photography," "Personal," "Scrap." Each one packed with subfolders nested like Russian dolls. I picked one at random—"Photography"—and opened a folder labeled "People."

What I found wasn't filtered or curated. There weren't any posed Instagram shots or group photos angled to suggest a more exciting life. These were raw. Street-level, almost. Black-and-white candids of students on school steps. A girl with a skateboard laughing with her head thrown back. A guy crouched by his locker, tying his shoes. Half of them probably didn't even know they'd been captured.

It took me about three minutes of skimming through the photos to realize there weren't a lot of selfies. Hardly any photos of Peter himself, except ones taken by accident—his reflection in a window, a mirrored surface catching him while he was adjusting the shot. A ghost boy with soft eyes and a tired hoodie, always slightly out of frame.

I didn't realize how lonely it looked until I started flipping faster, searching for someone else—anyone else—who appeared more than once. Familiar faces. Patterns.

And then I saw him. Curled up in a booth at a greasy diner, head tilted back mid-laugh, Peter across from him. A tall kid, well-dressed. Too polished to be from Midtown's usual crowd. I clicked deeper.

Harry.

There wasn't a last name on the files, but it didn't take much to connect the dots. It was Harry Osborn.

Rooftop hangouts with textbooks splayed open and soda cans kicked to the side. A blurry photo of the two of them on a subway platform, Peter catching Harry mid-ramble with an expression that screamed "are-you-seriously-taking-a-picture-right-now?" The kind of look that only happens between best friends.

And then Halloween. Harry in a black cape and cheap plastic fangs, clearly phoning it in. And Peter next to him in a…

Oh my god, he didn't!

He was wearing a white wig, oversized lab coat, and taped-on mustache that looked like it'd been cut out of notebook paper. Albert Einstein. Of course it was. That's fantastically on brand for Pete.

I actually laughed. A real, sudden, sharp laugh.

And then it caught in my throat.

Because even in the goofy getup, Peter didn't take up much space. He stood slightly off-center in the shot, like he wasn't sure he was supposed to be in it at all. The smile on his face was real, yeah—but shy. Like joy that had to ask for permission to exist.

God, he was trying so hard.

The kind of kid who put real effort into a joke costume and crossed his fingers someone would notice. The kind of kid who took candids of his best friend laughing, but almost never showed up in the frame himself.

I know that feeling.

Better than I'd like to admit.

I used to be the tagalong. The friend with the busted wallet, too broke to cover even my own slice of pizza. My friends never made me feel bad about it—at least not out loud. They'd just pay, shrug it off, tell me they were happy I came. That it didn't matter. But it mattered to me. Every time.

Because when you grow up worrying you take up too much space, even kindness can feel like pity.

Looking at Peter… I wondered how often he felt like that. How often he let himself be invited, but never believed he was wanted.

And how many times he left his own name out of the frame, because maybe he thought the photo was better that way.

I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that had settled over me like a thin fog. My fingers drifted back to the photos, flipping through them with the slow, careful rhythm of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping secret. Harry's face began to fade—less and less in each snapshot, until it was like he was slowly vanishing from the story altogether.

I paused.

Was Harry no longer in Pete's life? Did he move? Did they have a falling out? I could go ask Ben or May, but they're probably lying down now and I don't want to disturb them.

I blinked, and something new caught my eye. Where Harry had faded out, someone else had started to appear. In photo after photo, he was there—always with Peter. But not in the background. He was pulling Peter into the shot, literally. Arm wrapped around his neck in that big-brother way, tugging him in with a grin like nah, man, you're part of this too.

He wore a classic Midtown letterman jacket—the lime green body and white sleeves, a big "M" stitched proudly on the chest. His hair was shaved close on the sides with a sharp fade, and the top was kept longer, slicked back just enough to look effortlessly cool without trying too hard. The guy looked too friendly to be Flash Thompson.

Who is this guy?

I squinted at the name tag clipped to one folder.

Lonnie Lincoln.

Wait—Lonnie? THE Lonnie Lincoln?

As in… Lonnie Lincoln, the guy who grows up to become Tombstone? The ashen-skinned enforcer with a voice like crushed gravel and a rap sheet that reads like a Bond villain's resume?

My eyes darted back to the photos. He didn't look like a future crime boss. Not here. No dead-eyed stare. No pale skin like weathered stone. He just looked like… a dude. Big, sure. Broad shoulders. But his grin lit up the whole photo. There was kindness in it. He was laughing in most of them. And Peter—Peter was smiling back.

Not politely.

Genuinely.

Like maybe, just maybe, someone had finally refused to let him shrink.

What the hell was Peter doing hanging out with Lonnie Lincoln? Or maybe the better question was…

What kind of Lonnie Lincoln was this?

With that, I had to stop looking at the photos. I knew where my brain was going, and it wasn't helpful. Jumping straight to "future supervillain" was a fast track to making bad assumptions. People change. People aren't their worst-case scenario waiting to happen. At least, not always.

No—I needed to focus. Something more grounded. More current. If I was going to understand this world, I had to start looking at the big players. The ones who shaped New York from the top down.

First name on the list?

Easy.

Mostly because he has a nasty habit of becoming a massive problem for Peter Parker, whenever Peter finally becomes Spider-Man.

Wilson Fisk.

I typed the name into the search bar, hit enter.

The results made my chest tighten.

He wasn't just active.

He was the Mayor.

The actual Mayor of New York.

Fuck me.

No, like seriously... why the fuck is he the Mayor? I stared at the search results, hoping I'd misread something.

Nope.

There it was, bold as sin and twice as smug:

WILSON FISK SWORN IN FOR SECOND TERM AS MAYOR.

FISK ADMINISTRATION ANNOUNCES NEW CRIME INITIATIVE.

COMMUNITY LEADERS PRAISE FISK'S "CLEAN STREETS" CAMPAIGN.

Clean streets?

Are you kidding me?

Don't tell me he's playing the dutiful New Yorker now—shaking hands at ribbon cuttings, posing next to playground renovations, flashing that thousand-pound smile while reporters eat out of his palm. All while he's still gutting the city from the inside like a damn butcher in a $10,000 suit.

Okay, I just chastised myself over assuming Lonnie would be a villain later in life, but this is Wilson Fisk! I don't think he's capable of being a good guy in any continuity. This isn't just bad, this is a nightmare waiting to unfold.

Because if he's still Kingpin behind the scenes—and let's be honest, of course he is—then that means he's got the whole machine at his fingertips. Cops, courts, contracts, media… all of it. Everything Peter might one day have to fight against? This guy already owns it. Wrapped up in a nice, legally-sanctioned bow.

Okay, okay, okay… calm down.

One thing at a time. Just get your bearings, remember?

You're not swinging through Manhattan rooftops yet. You don't have spider-sense, webs, or a tragic backstory involving someone whispering "great power" on their deathbed.

No need to assume you're going to be fist-fighting a sumo wrestler's natural predator.

Deep breath.

So. Wilson Fisk is the Mayor. Not great. But technically not my problem... yet.

Let's move down the list.

Pete's arch-nemesis.

Norman Osborn.

I typed the name in and winced, like the words might bite me.

And what do you know? They kinda did.

Norman Osborn: billionaire industrialist, CEO of Oscorp—former CEO, apparently. The headline reads:

OSBORN STEPS BACK FROM OSCORP AMID ILLNESS – SMYTHE TO SERVE AS COMPANY SPOKESPERSON

My stomach dipped.

Norman was sick. That… actually tracked. This was more Amazing Spider-Man than Raimi-verse, and in this timeline, Norman's not blowing up scientists or threatening Thanksgiving dinner—he's busy dying. Slowly. Probably painfully. Which should've made me feel a little sympathy.

Instead, all it did was set off alarms in the back of my brain. Something about this felt like the first note of a much darker song.

Because if Norman's out, that means someone else is holding the leash at Oscorp.

And that someone is Allistaire Smythe.

The name alone gave me goosebumps. I clicked deeper. Photos. Press conferences. Him, standing stiff at a podium in that weirdly symmetrical suit, like he was generated by an AI trained exclusively on images of "respectable corporate villains."

Oscorp to Lead Tech Initiative in Collaboration with Mayor Fisk's Clean City Plan.

And there it was. My two least favorite puzzle pieces, shaking hands.

Allistaire freaking Smythe. The man behind the Spider Slayers. In some versions, he's just a creepy robotics genius. In others, he's a sociopathic zealot with a bug up his ass about vigilantes.

I'd be fine with "creepy robotics genius," honestly. But if he builds the Slayers here, and they're anything like the ones I remember? Sleek, silent, city-patrolling arachnid death machines?

Bad application.

Especially if they want me dead.

Nope. Not loving that future.

I sat back, rubbing my face with both hands. Somewhere between the Kingpin in a mayor's sash and Spider Terminators on the skyline, my whole body had started buzzing with that quiet, rising dread, as if it was telling me 'good luck, sucker.'

But there was still one name I had to check.

Not Fisk. Not Osborn. Not the latest rogue tech billionaire building anti-hero drones in his garage.

Someone else.

The Black Cat.

Out of everyone Peter had ever crossed paths with—friend, foe, flirt—she was the one I couldn't stop thinking about. There was something about their dynamic I'd always loved. That tension. That teasing chaos. The fact that she never tiptoed around him. She didn't ask Peter Parker to be smaller. She flirted with the idea that he could be bigger.

I was a sucker for girls like Felicia, but I'm not aiming for her to be my better half or even a person to add to a harem. She pushes Peter, and I could use someone who does that.

So, I typed it: The Black Cat.

The search results were...dusty.

Not in the usual "scrubbed from the net" kind of way. More like the digital version of a forgotten case file in the back of a locked cabinet.

Most of the entries were old. Really old.

Mentions in crime blogs. Buried police reports. Whispers on conspiracy forums.

"High-end jewel theft in Tribeca. Police say it bears resemblance to the 'Black Cat' string of robberies from the late 90s…"

"Copycat burglaries dismissed by NYPD—no confirmed sightings since the Black Cat's last known heist, seventeen years ago."

"Some say he retired. Others think he vanished for good."

He?

I blinked and scrolled back. Most of the reports didn't even reference the Black Cat as a woman. One line stood out in a crime blog from 2008. The Black Cat was never caught, disappearing without a trace seventeen years ago.

Hopefully that meant Felicia wasn't active yet. Maybe she hadn't put on the suit yet. Maybe she didn't even know what she was meant to become…

I can live with that.

I could deep dive into all my potential enemies for weeks, but there's a more tantalizing, exciting concept creeping into my mind now. What about the heroes?

I mean, yeah, doomscrolling my way through a villain lineup straight out of Nightmare Starter Pack Monthly is fun—if your definition of "fun" includes quiet existential dread and a strong desire to live under your bed, but seeing a hero feels more appropriate at the moment.

And that's when a new name slipped into my brain like a song you haven't heard in years but somehow still know every word to.

Tony Stark.

I typed it slowly, like I was expecting the internet to wink back at me.

STARK INDUSTRIES STOCK HITS NEW HIGH FOLLOWING CEO'S RETURN TO U.S.

"GENIUS, BILLIONAIRE, WEAPONEER": THE UNSTOPPABLE RISE OF TONY STARK.

Okay, so—he's in the public eye. Loudly. Flamboyantly. The human equivalent of leaving caps lock on while drunk-texting the universe. But nothing—nothing—about Iron Man. Not a whisper. Not a "mysterious armored figure seen at weapons test site" or "shiny robot guy punches tank, film at eleven." Nada.

So, he's not there yet. Or he's hiding it really well. Which… doesn't feel like Tony's style.

I clicked deeper, chasing the digital paper trail through articles, interviews, and press releases. His face was everywhere—magazine covers, startup keynotes, gala events where he looked like he was born in a tux and dared the concept of sobriety to a duel. He was just… Tony. Young, rich, obnoxiously brilliant, and aggressively unbothered by anything except his own headlines.

If he'd been kidnapped recently—and the timeline kind of lined up—there was no record of it. No mention of the cave. No murmurs of shrapnel, no arc reactors glowing faintly beneath designer suits. Just more photos of him winking beside missiles the size of school buses, or field-testing drones that made DARPA look like Fisher-Price.

And man, that ego. One article—an actual profile piece in GQ—quoted him saying:

"I'm not saying I'm the smartest guy in the room. I'm just saying it's statistically improbable that I'm not."

Gross. Accurate. But gross.

Still, I couldn't help wondering… had he already built the suit? Was it in a hidden lab somewhere, collecting dust and disdain? Or was he still pretending not to care about what his weapons were doing to the world?

Because that's the thing with Tony. He's not born a hero—he builds his own salvation. With scraps. In a cave. Powered by guilt and sheer manic brilliance.

And if that hasn't happened yet, if he's still just a walking TED Talk with war profiteering on speed dial… then I'm looking at a man who might become one of the greatest heroes of our time—but hasn't even started to walk that road.

It was weird. Seeing him before the burden and sacrifice. Just a young guy with too much money, too little accountability, and no idea that one day, the world would need him.

Captain America didn't pop up with any more promising results.

Well—unless you count conspiracy threads on grainy forums with usernames like "truth4liberty1776" and profile pictures that were either bald eagles or shirtless Rambo edits. The kind of sites that argue fluoride is a mind-control agent and insist Steve Rogers was real, buried somewhere in an iceberg next to Elvis and the Ark of the Covenant.

Spoiler: no Steve.

There were some old World War II articles on the SSR, sure, and vague mentions of Project Rebirth being "decommissioned due to unethical practices," but nothing concrete. No glowing blue serum. No super-soldier program that actually worked.

Just a bunch of whispers. Some historians still argued Rogers was just propaganda, a made-up mascot stitched together from a dozen real soldiers and a thousand wartime fantasies. Even the photos were fuzzy, almost… too perfect. Like they'd been touched up a few too many times, like someone wanted him to look larger than life.

If I didn't know better, I'd say it was probably fake as well.

I close my laptop, and place it beside me. So… Captain America and Iron Man aren't active. If I had to guess, Bruce either hasn't become the Hulk or is lying low.

Norman Osborn is dying, Smythe is the face of Oscorp, Fisk is the Mayor, and Felicia isn't active. Norman's sickness and May's offhand mention of Richard at Oscorp paint a picture that feels oddly familiar—Peter's side of this mess leans way more TASM than MCU.

It gives me a few more names I should look into, but if some of these guys are criminals, looking them up might not be a wise idea.

It's getting late, and I've officially burned myself out from my 'research.' I put everything away and flop down onto the bed.

The clock's not just late—it's practically tapping its foot, calling me out for procrastinating with digital snooping. I shove everything aside and flop onto the bed with the grace of a lead balloon. The ceiling above me doesn't offer answers, just the same quiet that follows a day filled with too many questions.

Sleep's playing hard to get, but eventually, my eyes start to rebel against the glow of screens and endless scrolling. Tomorrow will bring more digging—more puzzles that refuse to stay neatly solved. But for tonight? I'll let the shadows settle and hope the chaos can wait.

Hope you enjoyed! I know it's slow, but hopefully you can see a bit of how I want to make this unfold.

A lot of SI fics just have their inserts be given the memories of their host body or their intellect. I don't particularly like that, because it doesn't feel earned. So, everything "Pete" will get in the future, he/me is going to earn it. Even if he has to work his ass off to do so.

In regards to Pete's powers, I want to explore it slightly different compared to how it normally goes. It's not that the bite didn't give him powers, but rather... there's a gestation period.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T20:59:21+0000

By the time I wake up, birds are chirping outside, and sunlight is cutting through the blinds like a spotlight aimed straight at my face. I groan, roll over, and squint at the clock. Seven.

I think about going back to sleep. My brain's still wired for third shift, not high school. Being up this early feels like a mistake.

Eventually, I sit up and rub at my scalp, fingers dragging across skin that feels too smooth, too healthy. My body's not sore, which still throws me. Old habits are slow to die, and this one—this new one—doesn't feel like mine yet.

The air smells like bacon. Of course it does. And immediately, there's that tug of something half-forgotten—the comfort, the craving. I know that smell. I know how easy it is to lean into it.

But I also know where that road leads.

I can't go back to who I was before.

I didn't hate that version of me, not really. Sure, I could've eaten better. Moved more. Been a little less guarded, maybe a little kinder. But I wasn't miserable. Just… stuck.

Still, if I want to break the cycle—if I want to earn this second shot—I've got to make different choices. That starts with my body.

I need to eat better. Work out. Actually follow through this time.

Back in my old life, I'd hit the gym when I was in the right headspace. The trouble was, that headspace didn't visit often. Most days, I made excuses. Said I'd start Monday. Told myself one more cheat day wouldn't kill me.

And now here I am—new body, new life—and the smell of bacon is already whispering promises in the back of my skull.

Old habits die loud.

I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The tile's cold underfoot, the air thick with humidity from an earlier shower—May's, probably.

I splash water on my face, chasing away whatever sleep still clings to my eyes. The cold hits sharp, grounding me for a moment. I inhale slowly, trying to pretend it helps.

Then I look up.

And there he is.

The boy in the mirror stares back with Peter's face—almost.

It's familiar in the way a wax figure is familiar. The features are technically correct, mapped out just right. But something's off. It's like an AI took a dozen photos of Andrew Garfield, scrambled them for legal reasons, and fed them through a deepfake filter.

Uncanny. That's the word.

The hair, the bone structure, the slight curve of the mouth—it all should be right. But the longer I stare, the more it feels like I'm watching someone else wear a mask of someone I know.

Wiping my face with the hand towel, I catch it—just for a second.

My real face.

The one I left behind.

Bloodied. Bruised. The shirt torn, stained dark red. That high-vis orange vest hanging off me like melted plastic, shredded and soaked through.

It flickers in the glass like a jump scare—not loud, not sudden. Just… wrong.

And then it's gone.

But I saw it, and for one breathless moment, I feel like I'm haunting myself. Because I guess… in a way, I am.

I shake my head, placing the towel back on the rack and open the door. At the threshold, I pause.

One last look.

The mirror hasn't changed. It's still Peter staring back—head slightly tilted, expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and tired. I try to smile, just a little. Not for the reflection, but for me.

Like maybe if I fake it hard enough, Peter will smile back. Like he's saying Hey, we've got this.

It's stupid. Delusional, even. But for one small, silent second, it works. The knot in my chest eases, just a bit.

I step into the hall, shutting the bathroom door behind me.

Downstairs, the air smells like syrup and warm batter. Comfort food. The kind of smell that should be wrapped in flannel and played over a sitcom laugh track.

May's at the stove, flipping the last pancake onto a growing stack. The golden-brown tower lands on a plate in front of Ben, who's already seated at the table with a half-finished cup of coffee steaming quietly beside him.

He looks up and offers a small smile, soft around the eyes. May notices me a second later and lights up with the kind of warmth that makes you forget this is a house still weighed down by worry.

It's my first morning in the Parker household, and maybe it should feel strange—like I'm playing house in someone else's life.

But it doesn't.

Not as much as I thought it would.

There's an ease in the rhythm of it all. The clink of plates. The low hum of the radio playing something old and wordless. May wiping her hands on a towel, Ben buttering his pancakes like he's done it a thousand times.

It feels… normal.

And maybe that's the weirdest part.

"Morning, slugger." Ben greets me with a warm smile. "How'd you sleep?"

I don't answer right away. From what they know, I went to bed right after dinner—tired, recovering, still a little foggy from the coma.

What they don't know is that I spent a couple hours glued to Peter's laptop, combing through the digital breadcrumbs of his life—looking into some of Pete's most notable enemies and allies, trying to make sense of things.

Still, despite the late night mental gymnastics, I slept better than I have in… God, years. Even before the accident. No tossing. No panic dreams. Just… sleep.

"Pretty good," I say finally, sliding into the seat across from Ben. I glance toward May, then back to him. "I was kind of out of it when the doc was talking about school. Did she say when I'm going back?"

"After this weekend," May answers, setting down a plate in front of me like she's done it a hundred times before.

Her voice is light, but there's a trace of hesitation in it—like she's watching to see how I'll react. Like she's waiting for the real Peter to resurface, even in something as simple as how I handle breakfast and a Monday looming.

"Harry called," she says suddenly, earning my full attention. "He was hoping to stop by and see you now that you're home. I told him it depended on how you felt."

So, Harry was still friends with Peter then. Maybe they just didn't have the time to hang out as much as they were lately. I kind of want to see if I could ask Harry to help me out getting a new wardrobe, but the idea of asking for money has never been my forte. I like earning things myself.

As much as I wished I could lean on Peter's genius, I knew I didn't have his brain for that kind of tech wizardry. If I was going to pull off any of Peter's legendary feats—web shooters included—I'd have to put in the work and… I shudder at the thought, because God help me… I'm going to have to study.

"I'd like that," I replied. "D-did you tell him about my amnesia?"

"He's promised to take it easy around you so you're not pushed too hard."

That's a start.

I let my gaze drift to the window overlooking the street and stare at it a little too hard. Not because there's anything out there worth seeing—but because I don't know what else to do with myself. The silence from May and Ben stretches, soft but steady, and I lose track of time until the quiet scrape of ceramic on wood brings me back.

May's set a plate down in front of me. Pancakes covered in butter and syrup, with bacon and fried eggs on the side. It's practically your picture perfect meal.

"Everything alright, Peter?" she asks gently.

I nod, snapping back to the moment.

"Y-yeah, sorry. I was daydreaming."

There's a glint in her eye, but she doesn't say anything besides to eat up.

Ben takes a sip of his coffee and glances over at May, brow lifting.

"Anna called you already today?"

May doesn't look up from buttering her toast. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

Ben leans back a little, hands wrapping around his mug.

"No, it's just… it's not even eight yet. Seems like she's calling earlier every day."

"She was worried about Peter," May replies, arching a brow at him. "Wanted to see how he was doing."

"She couldn't call a couple hours later?" he mutters into his cup, like maybe the caffeine will shield him from further commentary.

I raise an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. Anna?

Wait—Anna Watson?

The name rings a faint bell. Aunt to Mary Jane, if I'm remembering right. I think I saw her name pop up in one of those old email threads Peter never deleted. Strict, maybe. Churchy. Definitely the kind of person who bakes things when she's worried and calls people before the sun's fully clocked in.

"Is she okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even as the bacon suddenly tastes a little more complicated.

"She's fine," May says with a small smile. "Just a worrier. She said her niece was asking about you too."

That stops me for a beat.

MJ.

Does she know Peter already? Or is it more like how it was with my grandpa—where he'd casually drop fifty names over the course of a single day, most of them strangers to me. But then one or two would stick, and somehow, without realizing it, I'd find myself asking about them like I'd known them forever.

Maybe it's something like that. Maybe MJ just knows May. Maybe she's never even met Peter, and her asking about me is more of a kindness than a connection.

Still… May didn't say her name outright. Just "her niece." That could mean I'm not supposed to know her yet. Or maybe I'm overthinking it, reading too much into a simple comment—seeing ghosts in throw pillows.

"Her niece?" I ask, and I see the twinkle in May's eyes as the words come out. Oh, she's already plotting isn't she? God, please let her just drop it. She's fourteen… fourteen. For fuck's sake I'm technically twenty-four. There's a ten year age gap even if I'm residing in a fourteen year old body.

My stomach lurches at the thought. Suddenly, the bacon doesn't taste as good as it should, and I have to put it down.

"She's a lovely girl. I think the two of you would get along." she replies sweetly. Too sweetly. I glance at Ben out of the corner of my eye. He's sipping his coffee like it's nothing, but his mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh.

Oh boy… How much has May talked to Ben about this?

"Honey, give the kid a break…" Ben says, the corners of his mouth twitching as he sets his mug down.

"What?" May replies, all innocence, like she didn't just throw a grenade into my morning eggs. "Peter could use more friends."

Ben chuckles under his breath. "The kid's just trying to eat breakfast. He doesn't need to worry about meeting a girl before he's finished his bacon."

I sink a little lower in my seat, eyes flicking between them. This can't be a real conversation. This has to be a stress dream. A matchmaking breakfast stress dream.

"She's not—" I start, but my voice comes out thin. I clear my throat. "I'm not worried about meeting anyone. I just… I've got enough going on, y'know?"

Ben raises a brow like he's heard that exact same line before—probably something he'd said himself when he was around Peter's age.

May, meanwhile, is buttering toast with the serene patience of someone who's already picked out names for our hypothetical children.

"I mean…" I force down the last piece of bacon that's glued itself to the back of my throat. It goes down like a rock. "I can't remember anything. Meeting someone new like that probably isn't the best idea right now."

I say it as evenly as I can, but there's this tight coil just under my ribs, waiting for May to press anyway. God, please let that be the end of it. I'm barely managing my own name without sounding like I'm guessing on a pop quiz. The last thing I need is to add impressing a girl to the list.

"In my defense, dear—I never said anything about meeting her soon."

"You certainly weren't excluding the idea either," Ben retorts. "Give Peter some time to get back into the swing of things."

Heh. Back into the swing of things? That's a cosmic-level pun right there. I have to stifle the snort that nearly escapes.

"I really don't think now's the best time for me to be making friends," I say, half-hoping if I sound sheepish enough, May will take pity on me and change the subject.

May hums, unconvinced. She takes a slow bite of toast, eyes not leaving mine. I clear my throat and shift in my seat, trying not to look like I'm actively squirming.

Finally after a moment, she seemed to relent as she dabbed a napkin against her lips.

"Alright, alright. I won't push." Relief rushes in like a cool breeze. Thank God. "But I still think you two would hit it off," she adds casually.

Of course she does.

I open my mouth to protest—again—but then pivot like a quarterback bailing on a broken play.

"Speaking of people I actually remember," I say quickly, "Harry can stop by whenever. I'd like to see him."

That gets May to pause, toast halfway to her mouth. Her expression softens.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." I nod, grateful for the lifeline. "You said he already called, right? I'd rather catch up with someone I at least kind of remember than crash into some girl's life like I'm auditioning for a rom-com reboot."

Ben snorts.

May leans back a little, looking reassured. "Alright. I'll let him know he can come by."

"Thanks." I pick up my fork again.

Ben gives me a nod of approval, the kind that says good dodge, kid, and goes back to sipping his coffee.

And just like that, the grenade's been defused. For now.

Surprisingly, the rest of breakfast goes by pretty quick. May doesn't really say much else on the subject—thank God—and the bits of conversation I actually catch between her and Ben are about stuff way out of my depth. Something about helping Jerry down the street with his busted radiator. May wants to head over to Anna's for their weekly tea, just to catch up. Honestly, hearing that she wants to go out and spend time with someone kind of catches me off guard.

I don't know why, but I always had this image in my head of May just… staying home. Like she lived in a state of quiet domestic limbo, frozen at the kitchen table with a crossword puzzle or folding towels with some sentimental jazz humming in the background.

It's weird. I mean, I know she's active. In some versions of Peter's life, she works at F.E.A.S.T., runs food drives, organizes fundraisers. She's kind. Involved. Present. I know that.

But still, the thought crossed my mind that maybe she just… didn't do much outside of this house. And realizing that—really sitting with it—makes me feel like a complete dick. She's an actual person. With her own life, her own thoughts, her own autonomy. So why the hell did I assume she had nothing better to do than bake wheat cakes and wait for me to come home?

Maybe that's one of the bigger problems I'm facing here: not being able to separate fiction from reality. These people, for years, were just images—faces on paper, dialogue in word balloons. Characters in stories. Seeing them now, in flesh and breath and motion, it's hard to shake that reflex to treat them like pieces of a plot instead of people with histories and lives I don't control.

Trying to see them as real... it's harder than I expected.

It really does feel like a dream. Even now, as I carry my plate to the sink, rinsing it under the warm water, I still catch myself half-expecting the edges of this world to blur. But no fade to black comes. No loading screen. Just Ben finishing his coffee and May wrapping up the last of her toast, the two of them chatting softly in the background like this is the most normal morning in the world.

Being here, with them, in this kitchen… it feels surreal. Almost too gentle to be real.

Normally I'd be dodging two of my dogs begging underfoot, one pawing at my leg and the other whining like I haven't fed them in a week. The absence of that chaos—the lack of familiar weight brushing against my shin—makes everything feel hollow in places I didn't expect.

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding.

Ben says something to May about checking the water heater before it gets too hot out, and she hums in agreement as she starts to clear the table. I mumble a quiet thank-you and slip away before I can be roped into anything.

I didn't notice it at first, but I finally realized how soft my footsteps were as I was walking up the stairs. I guess I was too focused on the pictures as I was walking in yesterday to even notice, but my feet don't cause the stairs to creak. There's no strain on the wood as I'm going up it. I suppose I shouldn't focus on the fact that I'm half the weight I used to be, but when you spend 90% of your life a certain amount of weight and you wake up the next day with only a fraction of it, it's hard not to think about it.

But here's the thing, one in my position would end up thinking about this—I don't care who you are. When you go from living one life to another, you're going to think about this shit. Body dysmorphia is a thing. Overthinking is a thing. Sadly, I fit both of those bills right now. I do over think about the littlest thing.

Does my weight fall into that factor? Yes, it does. That's something I'm going to have to work on.

Finally back in Peter's—my—room, I make a slow pass to the bookshelf. There's no real plan as I'm looking through these books. I've seen enough of these to know that they're not really to my taste. After all, I'm not a science geek like Peter was, and I don't plan to be. Sure, I'm going to have to learn some things if I'm going to do half of the stuff Peter did.

Web swinging, for example, will require me to learn how to do equations on the fly. It makes sense, swinging on a pendulum trying to avoid hitting buildings would need precision—but how the hell am I expected to do that? Why do I know that? It was something brought up in the Insomniac games. While I don't know how true that is to the experience, I might as well try to be thorough on the matter.

Though, I suppose it only matters if I have powers. I've been home now for 2 days, and I still have no sign of any powers.

I thought, maybe, it had to do with the fact that I was in the hospital not doing anything. But, I figured I would have felt something different. Maybe my senses were a little bit heightened, faster reflexes, or something… The fact is I don't feel different at all, not in the way I think I should.

Did Peter ever really feel that different from a bite? I suppose I never really thought about that. In any case, I still have to get used to all of this.

Like I said, there wasn't really a plan in my head as I'm looking at these books. There's just this vague itch to do something normal. My fingers land on a worn out science book tucked between two paperbacks. The spine's cracked, the cover slightly curled at the edges, like it's been used enough that it'll go to the exact page it was left on.

When I flip it open, a mess of sticky notes fans out like leaves.

I glance over a few.

The handwriting is young. Clumsy, sharp cornered letters that press too hard into the paper. It's a kid trying to figure things out in real time, half math, half stream of consciousness rambling about force, motion, and electrons. I skim through a few of the pages, piecing together the mindset of a boy who was just starting to really love this stuff. It makes me realize just how much I hated science when I was younger. I can never focus enough to even enjoy it that much. My sophomore year teacher, Mr. O'Brecht, made it easier—actually kind of fun—but even then, I couldn't hold on to it. Not the way Peter clearly did.

O'Brecht was a good teacher. I should've tried harder.

It's undoubtedly Peter's handwriting. Probably from when he first started learning science in greater detail—when it went from a subject in school to something that lit a fire in him.

I'll admit, I'm a bit envious. I can't say a subject ever called out to me like this—aside from writing, I guess. Even then, creative writing class never really sat well with me. Poetry definitely wasn't my forte. Wasn't for lack of trying, either.

The only part I vividly remember was a prompt where we had to write horror based around food. I ended up crafting this unhinged scene where Donald Trump murdered Chester Cheetah and rebranded Cheetos as Trump-O's. I even drew this freaky, Meat Canyon-style picture of him, with more wrinkles than a retirement home and eyes like melted wax.

My teacher seemed genuinely unsure whether she should've been proud or concerned. I was proud—if only because it made the entire class lose it laughing.

And yes, I absolutely read his lines in the voice.

Anyway—back to the point. Peter clearly loved science. I don't. That fire just isn't in me. Normally, if I needed something, I'd just go out and buy it. But now? I'm fourteen again. No money, no job, no Amazon Prime.

Not thrilled by the development. But hey—beggars can't be choosers. Might as well try to learn something before I have to.

I close the book and tuck it into the crook of my arm, thumb still marking the page like I'm going to pretend I'll come back to it in five minutes. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Either way, I head out toward the porch, feeling the quiet itch in my legs that's been there since I woke up in the hospital. The kind of itch that says: move, or rot.

The air outside's already warming up, sun filtering through the clouds like it's got somewhere better to be. I drop down onto the porch steps with a low groan—not because it hurts, just because I miss being able to do it with weight behind it. Everything I do now feels like it should come with a squeaky toy sound effect.

The book's heavier than I expect in my hands. Physics: Principles and Problems, by Paul W. Zitzewitz. Glencoe edition. Big red brick of a textbook with a cover that looks like someone thought lens flares and inertia were sexy.

I crack it open, flip past Peter's scrawled name on the inside cover, and settle into the first chapter.

To my surprise, some of it makes sense. Not a lot, but enough. The basic stuff clicks—the kind of stuff that feels like it's always been floating in the back of my head, just never important enough to grab onto. Newton's laws, motion, momentum. Honestly, Peter's notes are doing most of the heavy lifting. They're everywhere—wedged into the margins, stuck between chapters, sometimes scribbled over entire problem sets. And they help. He's not just taking notes—he's breaking things down like he's tutoring himself. Translating Zitzewitz into something someone like me could understand.

Which… is kind of awesome. Kind of infuriating, too.

I make it about twenty pages in before the words start swimming a bit. It's helpful stuff, no doubt, but I'm going to need more than scribbles and good intentions if I want to actually retain this. Videos. Forums. CrashCourse or Khan Academy or whatever YouTube rabbit hole Peter probably already fell down five times over. If I'm going to start web-swinging—or doing anything that involves not dying at high speeds—I need more than just guesswork and the ghost of someone else's study habits.

I'm just about to close the book when a low whistle slices through the still air.

"How'd I know that after three weeks in a coma, you'd be jumping right back into the textbooks?"

I glance up.

Harry.

He's leaning against the porch rail like he's been there a while, arms crossed, half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The photos in Peter's album don't do the kid justice. He's got that kind of effortless charm that looks curated but probably isn't—hair perfectly tousled in a way that screams casual, even though it probably took effort. He's dressed like someone who doesn't have to try, yet still looks like he walked out of a high-end ad campaign. Just the shirt, jeans, and jacket he's wearing probably cost more than my soul's worth on a good day.

And that smile—it's genuine. There's no smug edge or ulterior motive stitched into the corners.

If I didn't already know who Harry Osborn was, I'd think there wasn't a bad bone in his body. He's got the same soft look Peter had in those pre-bite, pre-tragedy days—except Harry's version comes with designer clothes and a trust fund.

I go to speak, but am unsure of what to say. May did say that Harry knew about my 'amnesia,' right? At the very least, I know Harry is meant to be Peter's best friend. Beyond that, I'm not exactly sure how to approach this.

"Y-ya got me." I chuckle, nervous and sheepish, setting the book down on the porch beside me. "How long have you been standing there?"

Harry shrugs and steps up onto the porch, boots soft against the wood. "Long enough to know you don't pay attention to your surroundings."

I force a crooked smile, trying to sell the role. "Yeah, well… guess I've been kind of in my own head lately."

He raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't press. Instead, he flops down onto the porch swing like he's done it a hundred times before—probably has. The chains creak slightly under his weight as he leans back, stretching out like a cat in the sun.

"May told me you were different, but I thought maybe she was overthinking again." he said, more casual than I anticipated. "Don't get me wrong, you're clearly still nerdy enough to be reading physics for fun, but… I dunno. You seem quieter."

I nod slowly, pretending to chew on that. "Yeah. Still piecing things together. Some stuff feels familiar, but most of it's... static."

Harry watches me for a second. There's something thoughtful in his expression, like he's trying to read between the lines.

"I get it," he says finally. "After what happened, it makes sense. You don't just bounce back from something like that." He nudges the book with the toe of his shoe. "Still, I didn't expect to find you nose-deep in Zitzewitz again. You hated this thing when you first got it."

I snort at that—probably the right reaction. "Guess I got desperate."

"Desperate enough to start enjoying it?"

"Let's not get crazy."

He laughs.

"Fair enough," he replied. After a pause, he let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're okay, Pete. I was really worried about you."

"Me too. I don't remember what happened, exactly… but I know Ben and May were worried sick."

"What do you remember?"

I try to think of any details regarding the day Peter went into the coma that I would know about, but beyond the fact he fell in front of his entire class, I come up blank. So, I just decided to give him a half-truth.

"Pain," I answer, the sensation of the seat belt crushing my ribs haunting me. "Then the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."

Harry doesn't respond right away.

He just sits there, gaze shifting down the porch steps like he might find the right words carved into the wood. The wind threads through the trees beyond the fence, and for a second, the quiet feels loaded.

"Pain," I repeat, quieter this time, as if saying it again will make it more believable—or maybe just help me believe it.

Harry nods slowly. "Yeah… I guess that tracks. You collapsed so fast, it freaked everyone out. They said it was some kind of seizure at first. The paramedics didn't know what was going on. You just hit the floor in front of everyone and didn't get up."

He pauses again, jaw tightening. "It was like someone pulled the plug on you."

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling, trying to picture what happened. I don't know if I should be withdrawn or feeling something, but there's a bit of a fog there. I feel numb, and I don't like that.

"Lonnie was the one who caught you before you hit the ground," Harry continued. "I don't know how he even managed to see it first… you were trailing behind the group."

"I was?"

"Yeah. We were talking with Dr. Octavius. He took a liking to you, by the way."

Dr. Octavius.

That name sinks in weird—like tasting something sweet that's turned sour just under the surface. It's not the "mad scientist with metal arms" version my brain flashes to, but the context still sticks sideways in my ribs. Hearing it like that, casually dropped into conversation, makes the world tilt just a little.

Harry keeps talking. "You two were tossing around all this jargon, and I was just standing there pretending like I understood any of it. At one point I think you said something about neural relays and feedback latency and Doc just lit up. Like, full 'Eureka!' mode."

I blink. "That… sounds kind of awesome, actually."

"It was," Harry agrees with a grin. "I mean, you were nerding out so hard I thought your glasses were gonna fog up, but it was cool. You were actually passionate about it."

There's that word again—you.

It stings a little. Not because Harry means anything by it, but because I don't know how to live up to this ghost I'm wearing.

I offer him a crooked smile, trying to keep the mask from slipping. "Well… I'm glad I left a good impression. Even if I can't remember making it."

He softens. "It'll come back. Probably when you least expect it. That's how memory works, right? It's like… flashes. Smells. Sounds. Something'll trigger it eventually."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Eventually."

"Anyway," he says, noticing the tension on my face as I said it. "By the time you two were wrapping things up, I went to go catch up with the group. Mr. Larson already doesn't like me as it is, so I didn't want to give him another reason."

Harry says it casually, but I catch the edge beneath his voice—a note of practiced indifference, like someone who's gotten too good at pretending other people's opinions don't bother him. Mr. Larson must be one of those teachers who smiles with their teeth and grades with a chainsaw.

I nod like I get it, because maybe Peter did.

"Is he always that bad?"

Harry snorts.

"Worse. He's had it out for me since the first day of the year. Thinks I'm just some spoiled rich kid coasting through science because I can afford a private tutor. Joke's on him—I don't have a tutor, I just cheat off you."

I laugh—genuine this time, caught off guard. That's going to change quickly. I was lucky to get above a C on my tests, and that was with the little bit of studying I could muster.

Harry grins, leaning back into the porch swing again with a creak of the chains.

"You haven't been caught yet?"

"Of course not! I know how to be discreet, Pete. I mean, I'm not like Flash, but I'm also not at your level either. I only really cheat on the hard questions."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence, Harry." I smile. It's weird. He's trying to make me feel at ease, and for the most part, it's working. But there's still that quiet undercurrent humming beneath everything—because I'm not Peter.

"That's alright, I've got enough for the both of us." He glances sideways at me, then shrugs. "Anyway… I doubled back to find you, and that's when everything went to hell. You were still talking to Doc, but then you went pale. Like—hospital-sheet white. Eyes rolling back. You stumbled back a step and just dropped. Scared the hell out of Octavius."

The image hits me out of nowhere. Not because I remember it—but because I don't. I try to picture what Harry saw. Try to imagine Peter's body suddenly folding in on itself, lights going out behind his eyes. A short-circuit. A reset.

Harry's voice drops, quieter now.

"You would have cracked your head on the tile if it wasn't for Lonnie. He caught you in time. That's our star quarterback for ya."

Lonnie's the quarterback? I figured Flash would have been. He was always the most popular jock in Pete's grade. Though, I suppose that doesn't translate into athleticism. It reminds me of my buddy Gavin and not being able to keep up with a sixty-year-old man in work boots. The old man said it himself, if Gavin was our best player, then it was no wonder our school's team barely won.

I unconsciously sigh. I miss Gavin, he'd enjoy being in my shoes right now.

"What about Flash? Isn't he on the team?"

"He's recovering from a broken wrist. Let me tell ya, he was not thrilled about missing the first few games of the year."

"I can only imagine…"

"So, you remember Flash then?"

"Vaguely," I say. "It's mostly just his name and a picture I saw on my computer." It's not a lie. When I was scanning through the photo albums, I came across a few photos of the football team and various other groups. Peter must have belonged to the yearbook club as their acting photographer.

Harry gives a short laugh at that, more amused than surprised. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Flash has never met a camera he didn't think was already in love with him."

I crack a grin. "I think he's got a permanent smirk in every photo."

"Exactly!" Harry leans forward, animated now. "It's like he's trying to seduce the yearbook. 'Hey there, future readers. Miss me?'"

The impression is surprisingly spot-on, and it pulls a chuckle out of me—one that lingers longer than I expect. I think I needed that.

Harry leans back again, content. "I'm telling you, the guy's an absolute tool half the time, but he's weirdly loyal once you're on his good side."

That honestly sounds about right for Flash during his high school years. Once he graduated, he became easier to deal with, but that's four years away.

Harry kicks at a leaf near his boot.

"Anyway, after you collapsed, the school freaked out. Ambulance came in, sirens and everything. They cleared the building. Larson was shaking like a leaf. I think he actually felt bad for once."

I glance up at that. "That serious?"

"You weren't breathing for a while," he says, voice softening. "Octavius was the one who started CPR. Larson couldn't even move."

"Otto Octavius gave me CPR." The words feel foreign in my mouth. Like hearing that Dracula volunteers at a blood drive.

That part makes my stomach twist. Not the idea of dying—I already did that once, kind of—but the image of a man like Otto Octavius, calm and brilliant and in a lab coat, kneeling down on cold tile to keep a kid alive. It feels… off. Like a villain playing hero out of order.

"He saved my life," I murmur.

Harry nods. "Yeah. He really did. I think that's part of why he keeps checking in. He's been emailing May, asking how you're doing. Said he'd still like to mentor you, if you're up for it."

I pause. It's tempting. Not just because of the opportunity—though, let's be real, having a scientific genius in your corner isn't exactly a bad thing—but because there's a thread there. A connection to the old Peter. Something solid I might be able to use to stitch this whole illusion together.

"I'll think about it," I say eventually, careful with the words.

Harry doesn't push. "Cool. No pressure."

We sit a while longer, talking about little things. He's catching me up with what's been going on at school, and for the most part it's nothing I'm too concerned about. A couple of tests that I'd have to make up, relationship drama, and talk about a new project in History. Speaking of history, I'm actually looking forward to that class seeing as there's a brand new world for me to learn. Seeing how things are different here actually feels tantalizing, and that's probably the weirdest part for me.

Like does Elon Musk exist here? Did 9/11 still happen? How were things different in WW2 with Captain America involved? Was Hydra still a threat that popped up in the headlines through the Cold War? Does Wakanda have an embassy in the US yet, or are they still a remote hidden country at this point?

Shit, mutant rights are another thing I'd love to know about. Is Magneto still a 'villain' or is he actually one of the legitimate good guys now? Hell, if I'm asking that, is Charles Xavier the leader of the Brotherhood now? That'd be a twist. Making a villainous telepath is too easy, though.

"Hey, are you able to leave the house or is May keeping you on lockdown for the time being?" he asked finally, rising to his feet.

"I think I can convince her to let me off the leash for a bit. Why, what's up?"

"I was thinking we could swing by my place. Dad's been wanting to see you." his voice drops, becoming almost melancholy.

I'm quiet for a beat longer than I wanted to be, but it was like getting hit with a flash grenade.

Norman Osborn wanted to see me.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:07:05+0000

As it turned out, asking May to let me out of the house was a little like asking a dragon if you could borrow her gold. She gave me a look, the kind that managed to be worried, stern, and exhausted all at once, before quietly nodding, brushing her thumb across my cheek like she thought I might shatter on contact. I got to say it's still a bit weird seeing her look at me like I'm her kid.

I'm not one for public displays of affection, in any regard. I'm what you might call an introvert, but that doesn't really feel like the right word. Basically, unless I am really comfortable with somebody I cannot make contact with them. Hell, it was hard enough to be okay with my own mother hugging me let alone anyone else. About the only two people I could hug without discomfort was my brother and grandpa.

So, seeing her look at me like that was a bit uncomfortable to say the least. At the end of the day, I am her nephew now. I need to get used to that.

"You be careful, okay?" she asked. "Don't push yourself. If you feel tired, or dizzy, or anything—"

I stopped her.

"May, I'll call." I smile. "I promise."

I actually meant it too.

She hesitated for a beat longer than usual, then gave me a kiss on the temple and let me go. It felt like she was handing off a piece of glass she'd spent her whole life trying to keep from cracking. The kiss took every ounce of willpower I had to avoid scrunching my face in disapproval.

The screen door creaked a little louder than usual behind me as I stepped out onto the porch. Afternoon light was spilling across the street in long, lazy beams, the kind that make everything look warmer than it actually is.

Harry was waiting by the gate. The limo behind him looked comically out of place on our block, like someone had dropped a slice of Wall Street into the middle of a working-class postcard. One of the neighbors—Mrs. Reyes, as Ben had pointed out last night after dinner, was peeking through her blinds like we'd summoned a UFO.

Harry caught my eye and gave a small wave.

I gave a smaller one back.

I wasn't used to this. Not just the car, but the idea of having someone waiting for me at all. Where I came from, people didn't really do this kind of thing. If you wanted a ride, you waited out front and hoped the rust bucket didn't stall. You didn't get picked up like a visiting dignitary.

I jogged down the steps, feeling the familiar buzz of nerves in my stomach. It wasn't Harry. It wasn't even the thought of meeting Norman Osborn, not at the moment anyway. No, it was the idea of leaving the house. I always wanted a chance to explore the world, but I wasn't expecting it to hit this hard.

I was used to being in a small midwestern town with a reasonable amount of privacy to my name. I'm not even used to being in Queens, and I'm already about to move out into the Big Apple for the first time. It's a bit much, if I'm to be honest.

"You survive?" Harry asked as I approached.

"Barely," I said. "She almost made me bring a sweater."

"She did make you bring a phone, though, right?"

I pulled it out of my pocket, waved it in front of him like a magician's prop.

"Good," he grinned. "Because if you ghost me, Bernard will start putting up missing persons flyers."

I smirked, but didn't say anything. The truth was, I kind of liked the idea of someone noticing if I vanished. Beyond my immediate family, and maybe one or two friends—it wasn't something I was used to.

Harry opened the limo door for me like a gentleman, and I blinked as the tinted interior yawned open. It was… cleaner than I expected. I knew it'd be clean, but holy shit, I don't think I could spot a single flaw in the interior. And the quiet… I couldn't believe it. I could practically hear my heart beating in my ears. I hate to say it, but I'm so jealous right now.

I climbed in, trying not to look like a kid seeing a spaceship for the first time, and sank into leather that felt like it belonged in a museum. Harry followed, the door whispering shut behind him.

"I'm officially out of my element," I say mostly to myself, but Harry catches it and gets this big grin. "You like showing off, don't you?"

"I'd prefer to be in your shoes, Pete. But, your reactions make this worth it."

"Really? You'd rather be poor?"

"Well, not poor. I'd like to have more anonymity."

"True, I can't imagine going around with everybody knowing who you are."

Harry shrugged.

"It gets old. The cameras, the headlines, the pressure to smile like I've got stock in toothpaste." He turned his head slightly, looking out the window as buildings started to blur together. "Half the time, I'm not sure if someone's talking to me or my last name."

I could hear the undertone there. That subtle wear in his voice, like the words had been walked over a few too many times.

"Your dad is one of the richest men in New York. I'm sure if you asked him to, he'd move you somewhere where you could have a fresh start." I say, and even as the words come out of my mouth, I know it doesn't come out the way I wanted.

"I don't want to have a fresh start. I want things to be normal." Harry explained, his voice becoming soft and longing. "It's not that I don't enjoy the life I have, Pete. It's nothing like that. But, it'd be nice to be able to be my own person away from being the son of Norman Osborn."

He was quiet for a minute after that. He leaned back in the seat and tapped his thumb against the window like there was a rhythm only he could hear. I got the sense Harry wasn't used to silence, not when it lingered like this.

Outside, the view started to stretch. The narrow rows of houses and corner bodegas thinned out behind us, giving way to strips of rusting fences and wide concrete lots. It felt like we were leaving something smaller behind—something human-sized. Then the road lifted.

The bridge rose beneath us like the spine of some ancient thing, steel cables cutting the sky into slices. And then… I saw it.

Manhattan.

A jagged skyline of impossible structures, stabbing into the clouds like they were trying to puncture the sky. Skyscrapers stacked like teeth, windows flashing as they caught the sun. It was overwhelming. The kind of sight that made your breath catch—not because it was beautiful (though it was), but because you realized just how small you were in comparison.

The further we crossed, the more the traffic swelled, like the city was warning us not to enter without a fight. Horns bleated. Engines grumbled. The lanes narrowed in, forcing cars into a slow crawl. It felt suffocating, like the whole place was pressing inward, tightening its grip the closer we got.

And the buildings—God, the buildings—they weren't just tall. They were watching. Towering monoliths leaning over us like giants studying ants. Every glass surface reflected someone else's life, stacked a hundred stories above mine. I shrank into the seat a little without meaning to.

I was so out of my element.

Harry broke the silence, but his voice had dipped—quieter, less sure. The kind of quiet that feels deliberate.

"Hey… just so you're not blindsided or anything… when we get there, my dad's probably going to look a little rough."

I turned to him. Not suspicious—just curious.

"Rough like… he's run-down, hasn't slept well in days, or he should be in the hospital-rough?"

Harry gave this dry, uneven laugh that didn't bother trying to pass for genuine. "Somewhere in between. It's hard to explain."

That wasn't reassuring.

He shifted in his seat, rolled his shoulder like his shirt collar was starting to itch, then adjusted his sleeves like they were closing in on him. His arm settled on the window ledge, fingers curling in without him noticing. Knuckles pale, thumb twitching against his palm like he was grounding himself.

"They said he was sick, right?" he went on, not really waiting for confirmation. "Back when he stepped away from Oscorp. That part was true. What they didn't say is how bad it's gotten since."

I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Harry wasn't looking for a response—he was just letting the words out, slow and uneven, like it physically hurt to talk about it.

"It's a blood thing. Genetic. He's had symptoms for years, but they didn't get aggressive until recently. Now it's like… everything's catching up to him all at once. His body's slowing down. Shaking, stiff joints, random episodes where he kind of… zones out."

His voice caught a little on that last part.

"And he hates people seeing it. Hates feeling like he's not in control."

That part carried more weight than the rest. Not just pity or concern. Shame. Fear. The kind of fear that doesn't show up in headlines—just in the quiet, invisible places sons carry for their fathers.

"He'll act like it's nothing," Harry added. "Like it's just a cold or a pulled muscle or whatever sounds best that day. But if you watch his hands? You'll get it."

I looked over. Harry wasn't just talking—he was bracing. Like saying it out loud made it more real, and he was trying to stay one step ahead of that realization.

"I've seen people go through worse," I said finally. My grandmother's face flickered through my mind—frail, hollow-eyed in that hospital bed, the way her fingers gripped mine even when she couldn't speak. "I'll be respectful."

Harry nodded. Not out of politeness. Like he needed to hear that.

"He'll appreciate that," he said. "Even if he pretends he doesn't."

We sat there in the quiet again. The city kept moving outside, but in here, everything felt suspended.

"Just let me know if I accidentally cross a line, okay?"

"Of course, buddy."

Harry smiled—but not in the way people normally smile. It was stretched thin at the edges, more habit than expression. I knew that look too well. It's the same one I've seen in the mirror more than I care to admit—the kind of smile that's just armor. The kind you wear because breaking down isn't an option right now.

"If he freaks out at any point, I'm sorry," he added. "Dad's complicated. Cold, sometimes, but not heartless. He's just… calculated, y'know? He needs things to be perfect. And I think this—" he gestured vaguely toward the front of the car, toward the skyline still rising beyond the tinted glass "—this is eating him alive."

"I get it."

I really do.

I'm not a perfectionist, but I like things to go a certain way. And when they don't? I fray. It's something I've been trying to fix, but—let's be honest—everything about my life is broken into jagged pieces now.

While Harry's out here trying to carry the weight of his father's name, I'm just trying not to scream. There's no real safety net for me anymore. No one I can go to if something goes wrong. Sure, I could text a friend, maybe even get a hold of Mand or Jax if I needed to—but that's a lifeline, not a solution. And family? My grandpa's too stubborn to lean on for anything emotional. My mom… God, I love her, but sometimes she could make me feel like a burden just for opening my mouth.

And this? This whole body-swap?

There is no one I can talk to about it. Not really. Not without sounding like a lunatic. So, yeah…

I get it.

Harry doesn't say much after that, and I don't try to push it. The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. Bernard cleared his throat after a few minutes of miserably awkward silence and turned on the radio.

Some classical station. String-heavy. The kind of music you'd hear in a fancy steakhouse or on hold with the IRS. It filled the car like a perfume—something you couldn't quite ignore but didn't want to comment on either. Harry didn't react. He just kept watching the skyline roll by like it was a movie he'd seen a hundred times but still wasn't sure how it ended.

The limo finally banked off the main road and took a turn through a private drive tucked between a high-end art gallery and some kind of boutique coffee place that looked too clean to exist in nature. We passed a small fountain—a ridiculous marble thing shaped like Poseidon throwing a tantrum—and then, there it was:

The Osborn Building.

It's not necessarily the Osborn building. It's a giant apartment building with too much ego wrapped into its foundation because Norman just happens to live there. I don't want to imagine what the price of this place costs for even their shittiest loft. It'd still cost more than what I ever made in a month.

I leaned forward in my seat like somehow that would help me understand the scale of it better.

It didn't.

Bernard eased the car to a slow, almost reverent stop at the front. The doors were tall and tinted, flanked by black marble columns and a valet in a perfectly pressed uniform who looked like he'd been sculpted in a lab.

It opened into a wide plaza tucked just behind a row of trimmed hedges and modest trees in stone planters. There were benches lining the walkways—real benches, not the metal half-seats you get in public parks to discourage napping. One guy was leaned back on one of them, earbuds in, scrolling through something on his phone while a girl beside him tried to wrangle her Pomeranian back into its designer sweater.

It was weird. For all the grandeur, it felt like people actually lived here. Like someone might come downstairs in pajama pants and complain to management about the laundry room again.

Inside, the lobby looked like a boutique hotel with a mild identity crisis. Warm lighting. Earth-tone accents. A low waterfall feature in the corner that babbled just loud enough to be soothing. The floor was polished enough to see your reflection in, and the air had that unnaturally pleasant scent that probably cost more per spray than my old shampoo bottle.

I counted six elevators. Three lined up along one wall, three mirrored on the opposite. Between them was a little sitting area with modern chairs, sleek tables, and a magazine rack stocked with back issues of Architectural Digest and Wired. A teenager sat curled into one of the chairs with a sketchpad and a half-eaten protein bar.

The receptionist glanced up from his desk, eyes lighting up the second he saw Harry.

"Mr. Osborn. Welcome back."

"Thanks, Benny," Harry said with a grin, like they were on familiar, first-name terms.

Then Benny turned to me, and I didn't expect what came next.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. Been too long."

I blinked.

Not just at the words, but at the way he said them—warm, practiced, like this was something he'd said a dozen times before. My mouth twitched upward into a smile before my brain could catch up.

Harry spoke for both of us.

"How's the family, Benny?"

"Surviving," Benny replied with a shrug. "My daughter's graduating in two weeks, so I'm barely surviving, but yeah. You know how it is."

As we walked past the desk, I leaned toward Harry, keeping my voice low.

"I'm guessing I don't remember him?"

"Not really," Harry said, pressing the call button for the elevator. "But Benny remembers you. You used to bring him cookies every December. Your aunt's recipe."

"Oh."

That hit me weirdly hard.

The elevator dinged. Sleek doors parted like they were gliding on invisible air, and we stepped inside.

"Benny's a good guy," Harry added as he pressed the button for the penthouse. "A little nosy, but good. Just try not to say anything incriminating near him and you'll be fine."

I raised a brow.

"Ah. Your friendly neighborhood snitch."

Harry smirked.

"Exactly."

The doors eased shut, and the elevator began its silent ascent. The numbers above the door ticked upward with that sterile, digital beep. Floor after floor slipped past in silence.

Harry leaned back against the wall, thumbs brushing over the edge of his phone screen, not typing anything—just scrolling through some invisible thought. I stood across from him, arms loosely crossed, watching the floors blink by like we were headed somewhere higher than gravity was meant to forgive.

It took longer than expected. Not because the elevator was slow—but because this building was just that tall. By floor twenty-something, I gave a low whistle and tilted my head back.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You sure this isn't just a disguised space elevator?"

Harry gave me a sideways glance. "Dad likes the view."

Of course he does.

Finally, the elevator gave a soft ding that felt more ceremonial than anything else. The doors slid open onto a hallway that didn't even pretend to look like the rest of the building.

The carpet was so plush it made my sneakers feel like I was stepping on a forbidden cloud. Walls were paneled in dark wood—real wood, not that faux veneer crap that peels when you look at it wrong. There were paintings on the wall. Real ones, I think. One looked like it belonged in a museum. The other looked like it belonged in a haunted one.

Harry stepped out first, and I followed, resisting the urge to check if there was a second elevator just for the wine.

At the end of the hall: tall, polished bone-white double doors.

He paused in front of them—just for a second—like some old muscle memory made him stop. I cleared my throat, trying not to shift too much. The longer I stood here, the more I felt like I'd wandered into a furniture catalog I couldn't afford to breathe in. Like if I sneezed, I'd owe somebody thousands in damages.

"You good?" I asked.

He turned toward me, but whatever was on his face wasn't giving anything away.

"Hmm?" He raised a brow like he hadn't actually heard me. Something about it made my stomach twist. On the ride here, he'd been sharp—plugged in, reactive. This wasn't that.

"I asked if you're good?" I repeated, slower this time. His eyes flicked, like he finally caught up to the conversation. He patted his legs absently, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he looked down. "Harry?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Sorry, I was just... thinking about something."

Before I could get a chance to push the matter any further, Harry turned back to the doors and pushed them open. We stepped into the penthouse, and I nearly had to catch my own jaw before it hit the floor.

I'd thought the lobby was excessive. The fountain, the elevator, the wood-paneled hallway—it felt like somebody was overcompensating. This? This was practically somebody throwing money in your face and asking if you were impressed yet.

Yeah, no, I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Just... What else do you do when you realize your entire apartment could probably fit inside this entryway?

The air inside smelled faintly like some kind of fancy cologne and leather. Not overpowering, just... rich. Everything here smelled rich. The floor beneath my sneakers was cold and smooth—marble, I think—but not the kind you'd see in a hotel lobby or some overpriced mall. This had a texture to it, like it was carved, not poured. Polished to hell, too. I kept waiting for a butler to pop out and tell me to wipe my shoes.

The lighting was low, like deliberately low, which somehow made it feel both expensive and kind of haunted. A warm gold glow ran up the sides of the walls, making the place feel like it was trying to convince you it wasn't as cold as it actually was. It didn't work.

We passed a row of medieval suits of armor that probably cost more than a car each. One of them had a dent in the chestplate, and I wasn't sure if that made it more authentic or less. There were racks of weapons—actual swords and spears—lined up like someone was waiting for a siege. I don't even know what you're supposed to do with that many blades in New York.

"Mand would love this," I muttered mostly to myself, barely in a whisper.

A fireplace sat dead center in the living room, and I swear it looked like it had been ripped out of some European castle. It was massive. Black stone, heavy mantel, fire already lit. Mounted above it was a TV that slid out from behind a hidden panel—because of course it did.

And the walls? All windows. Top to bottom. I could see half the city from where I was standing, and we weren't even on the balcony yet. The glass gave everything this weird blue-gray tint, like the whole place was suspended in its own little snow globe.

To the right, a kitchen bigger than my actual apartment, with steel appliances so shiny I didn't want to breathe near them. The kind of kitchen you hire people to use. And at the far end of the hall, there was this huge, curved double staircase that looked like it belonged in a movie about people who never had to do their own taxes.

I just stood there for a second, blinking at it all.

Because what else are you supposed to do?

"That look never gets old," Harry chuckled, stepping around me and making his way toward the kitchen like this was all just... normal. I followed, still low-key wondering if I should take my shoes off or sign a liability waiver just for walking across the marble.

He pulled open the fridge—naturally, it was one of those double-door units that lit up like a spaceship when you opened it—and turned to me.

"You want a drink?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

I didn't even register what I was grabbing until I had it in my hand. Cherry Dr. Pepper. Cold enough that the condensation immediately started forming against my skin. It's always been one of my favorite sodas to drink, besides cherry Pepsi of course.

Harry pulled out some sleek glass bottle of sparkling water. The kind with a minimalist label that probably cost ten bucks per bubble.

I squinted at it.

"How the hell can you drink that stuff?"

He glanced down at it, then back at me with a crooked little smirk.

"Huh. You used to love these." I blinked, then dragged a hand down my face in the slowest, most existential facepalm in history. "I... guess tastes do change."

I didn't say anything, opting to open my soda with a little hiss that felt almost defiant.

Harry chuckled under his breath and nudged the fridge closed with his hip. As he turned, my eye caught on something to the right of us—an inset doorway built seamlessly into the wall. I wandered over and peeked in, expecting maybe a pantry or a laundry room or something else semi-grounded.

Nope.

It was a wine room. A full-on, glass-encased, temperature-controlled gallery of booze. Rows and rows of bottles, some sealed with wax, some corked, some that looked older than both of us combined. Labels in French, in Italian, in handwriting I couldn't even begin to decipher. Reds, whites, stuff that glowed faintly like it had been blessed by a Vatican sommelier.

I don't even drink, but still. Jesus.

"You're kidding me…"

Harry looked over, taking a sip of his sparkling water.

"Yeah, my dad collects it. Hardly touches the stuff though. Only uses it for parties and special occasions."

"This is nuts."

"Honestly, I was about to say the same thing. I know you're a bit spotty on everything, but you really don't remember this place?" Harry asked. I shrugged for a lack of a better answer.

"I don't. I mean, I know you had a big apartment… but this is more than what I was expecting." Harry purses his lips together, as though he's unsure whether to believe me. Finally, I tell him: "I remember names, some faces, but that's it. Everything else feels like a fog."

Harry didn't say anything at first. Just kind of looked at me, the bottle halfway to his lips. I couldn't tell if he was trying to read me or trying to decide if he wanted to read me.

"Yeah," he said finally, quiet. "I figured it was something like that."

I nodded, unsure what to say to that. The soda fizzed gently in my hand, filling the silence with just enough noise to keep it from feeling weird.

"It's a lot like déjà vu." I added, trying to keep it light. "Like walking through someone else's dream."

Harry gave a small, understanding smile, then turned and started toward the stairs. I followed, the sound of our footsteps echoing off tile and stone and god-knows-what imported material.

"This used to be your second home, you know," he said as we reached the first step. "You, May, and Ben would come over during the holidays. When Mom was in town, she'd make sure to cook a big meal for everyone. It was really nice."

There was a softness in his voice, like he was trying to focus on something before it got too heavy. I knew the tone because I was the same way when people brought up someone that passed away. The rawness tended to get under my skin, and made it hard to focus on the good. Seeing as there was no mention of her before, I had a feeling I knew what he was avoiding. His mom, Emily.

I didn't press. I could've. God knows I had questions, but there was a weight in Harry's voice that told me he wasn't ready to unpack it.

So I just nodded again and kept pace beside him.

"She always went all-out," he said, a little softer now. "Roast duck, not turkey. Stuffing made from scratch. Desserts that could knock you out. Bernard would get flustered trying to plate everything the way she wanted, but she'd just laugh and tell him it wasn't supposed to be perfect."

I smiled at the image in my head, almost able to hear the laughter echoing through the penthouse, bringing much needed warmth to the home.

"She sounds amazing," I said.

"Yeah," Harry said, breathing out through his nose. "She really was."

There was a pause after that, and I knew that was where to draw the line.

We made it to the second floor, the quiet thump of our steps muffled by some kind of carpet I'm convinced was designed specifically to erase sound. I didn't know if that was a luxury thing or just an Osborn thing. Either way, it worked.

I broke the silence first.

"Where's your dad? Thought we would've seen him by now."

Harry's hand trailed lightly along the railing as we walked. "Probably in his room or office. He doesn't really get out much anymore."

I glanced at him, and my voice dropped just a notch.

"Harry… is it really that bad?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the hallway like maybe something there needed his focus.

"He's a proud man, Pete," he said eventually. "Dad doesn't like showing weakness. That's all it is. There's still plenty of fight left in him."

I didn't say anything to that.

We turned the corner, and that's when I heard it—classical music, faint but crisp, drifting through the hall like it belonged to the walls themselves. Something with strings, nothing upbeat. Heavy, tired, like it was trying to fill the silence left behind by something bigger. Layered underneath it, barely audible, was a news report. The words didn't come through clearly until we were maybe two steps away from the door:

"…authorities are still searching for leads for the brutal slayings in which multiple bodies were found in Lower Manhattan…"

I slowed a little.

Harry didn't.

He reached the door and didn't bother knocking. The music got louder, the news report cutting off as we stepped in. There, sitting behind a desk staring at a laptop was the man himself: Norman Osborn.

Not the public version, the one from press conferences and polished magazine spreads. Not the boogeyman business tycoon. This was… different. Whatever image of Norman I had in my head didn't match what was in front of me.

He looked older and paler, like the color had been quietly retreating from his face for weeks. His skin had that dry, stretched look that comes with long nights and very little sleep. Deep bags hung under his eyes, and his posture had that kind of stiffness you only get when standing hurts more than sitting. But even like this—wearing a sweater over a dress shirt like he'd only gotten half-dressed for the day—he still had presence. Still looked like a man who ran empires before breakfast.

And when he saw me?

That look…

His face lit up in this way that caught me completely off guard. Like someone had turned on a light behind his eyes that hadn't worked in a while. It wasn't a show. It was one hundred percent honest to God.

"Peter!" he said, pushing himself to his feet with more effort than he probably wanted us to notice. His voice still had a bite, still had that edge to it, but it was… softer now. "How are you feeling?"

There was a limp in his step as he came over, subtle but there. His lip twitched slightly with each movement—pain, maybe, or something else—but he powered through it like it didn't exist. And as he got closer, it was harder to believe the man I was looking at was supposed to be on death's door.

He really didn't look like he was dying, but I could see it under the surface. God help me—I actually felt bad for him.

"I-um," I started, the words fumbling right at the tip of my tongue. Of all the times for my anxiety to kick in, this is when it decides to? It couldn't have been when those pretty nurses came into my hospital room? "I'm a lot better."

Norman reached out and gripped my shoulder—firm, steady, and way stronger than I expected. The kind of grip that made it hard to imagine this guy ever being frail.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, giving me a look that… honestly? Felt more fatherly than anything I ever got from my actual dad. "You gave us quite the scare."

Us.

Right. I glanced toward Harry, who was lingering near the doorway now like he wasn't sure whether to stay or give us space.

"I'm sure I did," I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. "I don't know how much Harry has told you, but… I don't remember much."

"Your aunt was the one who told us." Norman gave a quiet, dry chuckle at that, like he appreciated the honesty but wished I hadn't reminded him. His hand dropped back to his side. "I will say though, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Gave poor Otto a heart attack."

Norman turned and motioned toward a couple of leather chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit, please. Would the two of you like something to drink?"

"We just grabbed something from the kitchen on our way in," Harry piped in, holding up our drinks as we walked over to the chairs.

"I appreciate it, though." I smiled. Also, when the hell did Harry take my drink? Did I give it to him without realizing? Don't tell me my brain fog was kicking in again, I was hoping that was going to be left behind in my old body.

"Like I've said before, if you need anything, just let me know."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It was such a normal thing to say, so casual. Like we were just catching up over brunch or something. Not like I was staring into the eyes of one of the most powerful—and possibly most dangerous—men in the city. The room was warm. Not just from the classical music or the lighting, but from him. It felt like I was stepping into the Twilight Zone or something.

"How are you feeling?" I asked before I could stop myself. "I mean, with everything going on…"

He gave the smallest pause. Just a flicker. Then he smiled again, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.

"I've had better years," he said simply. "But I'm still here. And that counts for something, doesn't it?"

The way he said it felt heavy. Like he was weighing more than just his health in that moment. And for the first time, I wondered if Harry had undersold just how much his father was holding back.

"It's better than some," was all I could manage.

"I'm not much for staying back and letting someone else take the reins. Allistaire, while he's a good man, I worry that it might be too much pressure I'm throwing at him at once." Norman explained.

"He's doing fine, Dad. You should worry about yourself." Harry shook his head beside me as Norman sat down.

"That company is my life, Harry. It's an extension of myself. I can't help but worry." Norman exhaled through his nose, resting back into the chair like he was lowering into something heavier than upholstery. "I built Oscorp from the ground up. Brick by brick, contract by contract. It wasn't always clean. It wasn't always pretty. But it was mine," he said. "Handing it off, even temporarily... feels like carving off a piece of myself and leaving it on someone else's plate."

To my surprise, there wasn't bitterness in his voice. He sounded tired, more than anything else.

"Still," he added. "This is only a temporary setback. I'll be back at Oscorp in no time…"

"Just take it easy…" Harry grumbled under his breath, earning a small smirk in response from Norman.

"Truth be told, I was hoping to see you sooner," Norman admitted, voice lower now as he looked at me. "But… you needed time. I get that. From what May said, I wasn't sure how much you'd remember me."

I shrugged, a little sheepish.

"More than I expected, less than I'd like."

He smiled at that.

"You were always like a second son to me, Peter. I don't say that lightly." His eyes flicked to Harry, then back to me. "This place... this family—it was always yours too."

That one landed harder than I expected.

I swallowed.

"I wish I remembered more of it."

"You will," Norman said, like it wasn't up for debate. "Might not all come back at once, but it's still in there. Trust me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

"You've always had a stubborn streak. You and Harry both, but you've got heart. You always did."

That sounded more like the Norman I remembered—sharp, intimidating, but with a core that was actually capable of real affection.

"You gave us a scare, kid," he said, voice softening even more. "Don't do that again."

I almost smiled at that.

"I'll try to keep the dramatic comas to a minimum."

Norman gave a quiet chuckle, then ran a hand through his hair.

"God, I sound like your aunt."

"You do," I nodded. "But don't worry, I won't tell her."

He laughed again, this time louder, and I saw Harry's shoulders ease just a little beside me.

The conversation after that sort of drifted. Nothing too deep. Norman asked Harry how school had been—asked me about how things had been feeling at home. I gave the kind of answers you give when you don't really know what the answers are supposed to be—short, polite, light enough to pass as real.

Harry carried most of it, which I didn't mind. Honestly, it made things easier. He was good at that, filling space without making it feel like filler. But then, right as Norman was talking about some foundation gala that I guess I'd gone to once, Harry stood up and muttered something about needing the bathroom.

I watched him step out and close the door behind him. The second the latch clicked, the room shifted.

Norman's face didn't exactly drop—it just… changed. Like he'd taken off a mask he wasn't even aware he'd been wearing. He cleared his throat once, low and tight.

"Peter," he said, and the tone was different now… grimmer and darker. "I'm serious… how are you feeling?"

I blinked.

"Like I said… I'm feeling a lot better."

He just sighed, then reached over and turned his monitor toward me. On the screen was a paused video. I leaned in a little without thinking. It was grainy, security footage by the look of it, but clear enough to tell faces. There I was—Peter, anyway—standing next to Dr. Octavius at some exhibit. One of the research floors, maybe. My arm was up, hand raised.

"Wait," I said slowly, "is that from the field trip?"

Norman nodded.

"It is still my company," he said, tapping the desk lightly. "I spent days trying to figure out what happened exactly, who was around you, what might've triggered the collapse. But then… I noticed this."

He pointed at the screen. My hand.

"You reacted. Right there. Like something happened to your hand."

I didn't respond right away. As much as I wanted to, there was no recollecting the event. Weirdly enough, my hand had a dull phantom pain jolt through it as I continued to stare at the screen.

"I woke up with bandages on that hand," I said, almost casually. The moment it came out of my mouth, I unintentionally swallowed hard and looked back at him. "But I don't remember what happened."

Norman leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt less like concern, more like… calculation.

"Well, nothing seemed visibly wrong before you reacted. So, something happened."

"What are you getting at?" I asked, keeping my tone level even though I already had a guess.

He was quiet a moment longer, then turned the monitor back around. When he looked at me again, his eyes were sharp. Curious. Concerned. But under all that? A hint of something else.

Hope. Maybe.

Or something worse.

"You don't remember anything strange? No dreams? No changes? Nothing you can't explain?"

I swallowed hard and did my best to look confused.

"No," I lied. "Nothing like that."

Yeah, there's been changes… but I doubt it's the one you want to hear about.

His eyes narrowed, like he was trying to see through me, peel me open and dig out whatever truth I was hiding underneath. I didn't flinch, but my pulse definitely picked up.

"Peter," he said, his voice dropping into something quiet but firm. "You can trust me if you need to talk."

"Norman, I promise… if something was happening to me, I would tell you," I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out. Not too fast, not too defensive. Just enough to hopefully pass.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed back from his desk and stood—slow, deliberate. He stepped around the table, his expression unreadable now, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

It was firm. Not harsh. But it anchored me in place in a way I didn't love.

Then he leaned in, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my ear.

"If you did have something happen," he said, just above a whisper, "don't tell anyone. You understand, son?"

That word hit me harder than it should have. My eyes shifted, trying to glance sideways at him.

"What?"

He didn't move back.

"There are eyes watching," he said, quieter now. "And I will not let anything happen to you."

Then, just like that, he let go and stepped back, straightening his sweater like we'd just been talking about weather forecasts. Whatever crack had opened in him just now—it was sealed again.

I just sat there for a second, trying not to let it show on my face how much that rattled me.

Because I didn't know what scared me more—what he meant by eyes watching… or the fact that I believed him.

Nothing about that sat well with me.

Norman just eased himself back into his chair like nothing had happened—like he hadn't just leaned in and whispered something that sounded more like a warning than advice. The warmth in his voice returned like flipping a light switch, the concern in his eyes replaced with that same calm, businesslike sharpness he always wore in interviews and boardrooms.

Like he was playing a part again.

I sat there with my soda in one hand, barely breathing, trying not to let the chill that crawled down my spine show on my face.

Because he was fine. Acting like we'd just talked about grades or summer plans or something stupid like that.

But me?

I couldn't stop hearing those words: "Don't tell anyone."

Was Norman… not a bad guy, like I was afraid he'd be?

I didn't know. I still don't.

Everything in me was on edge, like my brain couldn't decide whether to trust the man or run from him. There was something so real in his voice—something almost desperate—but the fact that he felt the need to say it at all? That said everything I needed to know.

If Norman was worried about something… really worried, enough to pull me aside and whisper it like we were being watched—then it couldn't be anything good.

By the time Harry came back in, I could tell he noticed I wasn't the same as when he left. His eyes lingered on me for a second longer than they probably needed to, but he didn't say anything—just offered a small, polite smile like he was trying not to make it worse.

I didn't say anything either. I acted like everything was fine. Like Norman hadn't just whispered something into my ear that would've made a conspiracy theorist start sweating.

And Norman?

Norman acted like it never happened. Like we were all just picking up where we left off, sipping sodas and making small talk. It was… unnerving, how well he wore that mask.

We stayed another hour. Long enough to make it seem like nothing weird had happened. Long enough for my brain to run that conversation in the background like a broken record on repeat.

Eventually, Harry stood up and stretched, giving Norman a small smile as he glanced toward the hallway.

"I should probably get Peter home before May starts filing a missing persons report."

Norman rose as well, but slower this time, like the weight in his body was starting to win.

"Of course," he said, voice light but his eyes never quite left me. Then, just as Harry turned to lead the way, Norman reached out and gently caught my arm—not hard, just enough to stop me.

"Just remember what I said, Peter," he murmured, his voice lower now. "If you need to talk… I'm here."

I nodded slowly. Forced a small smile that didn't reach anywhere near my eyes.

"Thanks."

And with that, we left.

The building felt different on the way down. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way the elevator hummed a little too quietly, but the weight of that conversation was still riding shotgun in my head. The second the elevator doors opened into the lobby, I was already on autopilot—eyes glazed, thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened were almost to the glass exit when it hit me.

Hard.

A jolt—no, a pulse—ran through the center of my head like something had grabbed the base of my skull and twisted. Not quite pain, not exactly. It was disorienting, like my center of balance had just kicked the bucket.

I stumbled, shoulder brushing hard into Harry's side.

"Whoa—hey, Pete?" he said, immediately reaching out to steady me. "You okay?"

I didn't answer right away. I couldn't. My breath caught in my throat and my whole body was on fire, but not from heat. It was awareness. Full-body alert.

The throbbing moved—shifted, spun around my head like a siren—and wherever it passed, the hair on my arms and neck stood straight up. My skin felt wired. Buzzing. The pressure built until I thought my teeth might start vibrating.

"Peter?" Harry repeated, more urgent now.

And then…

My eyes snapped open wider than I even thought possible, and the world suddenly looked clearer. Sharper.

Like I'd just stepped out of fog and into a storm.

No.

No, no, no, wait—

This… this wasn't just panic.

This was instinct.

This was danger…

My Spider-Sense was going off. For the first time.

And it was screaming.

But why the hell was it going off… here?

It started as this general pressure, like my whole brain had been dropped into a wasp's nest, but then it shifted. Drifted. The sensation crept to the left side of my skull and settled behind my ear, like something invisible was pressing into it with a cold finger.

I turned instinctively, head swiveling that way without even thinking—and the buzz slid again, fast, crawling right above my eyebrows, pulsing just under the skin.

That's when I saw him.

Someone was sitting against the far wall of the lobby, half in the shadow cast by a decorative pillar, like he'd been there the whole time but only now decided to exist.

Hood up. Head down just enough to hide his face. But his eyes?

Locked. Dead on us.

Dead on me.

I didn't know what it was about him, not really. He wasn't doing anything. He wasn't moving. But everything in me said this guy does not belong here.

And the Spider-Sense—wasn't just buzzing anymore. It was hissing.

Warning me.

Harry didn't seem to notice. He just kept walking toward the valet, tossing a casual glance over his shoulder.

"You good? You looked like you were gonna hurl for a second."

But I wasn't listening.

Not really.

Because the guy against the wall? He hadn't blinked once.

And he was still watching.

A.S.

A.S.

A.S.

The man watched as Harry led Peter through the front doors of the plaza, his gaze tracking every movement with surgical focus. The kid hesitated, just for a second—eyes sweeping the lobby, landing square on him.

He grimaced beneath the shadow of his hat.

Had he been made?

No. Stupid thought. He'd been careful. Subtle. The kid had just come out of a coma. It was nerves. Coincidence.

Adjusting the brim of his hat, he stood, brushing off his coat. One gloved hand dipped into his jacket to check something—habit, nothing more—then he turned and pressed the elevator button without breaking stride.

The ride up was silent.

No classical music this time. Just the low hum of the lift and the quiet flicker of fluorescent lights overhead. He barely blinked as the floors ticked by, watching his reflection in the stainless steel doors until they slid open.

The penthouse was quiet.

Norman Osborn was still in his office.

He didn't look up right away—but his posture shifted. A small tension through the shoulders. A glance toward the glass. He already knew.

When he finally turned, there was no welcome in his eyes.

"Why are you here?" Norman asked, voice low and worn, but sharp enough to carry weight.

The man stepped inside without answering, his movements calm and measured. The soft carpet dulled the sound of his shoes.

"You know why I'm here, Osborn," he said. "My employer wanted to send a message. In case you were thinking about keeping him from what he's owed."

Norman's brow furrowed, deepening the lines carved into his face.

"That so?" he muttered. "And what exactly is the message?"

The man stopped a few feet from the desk, head tilting slightly.

"You might've built Oscorp," he said. "But men like him—and his partners? They're not here to play games. They're here to remake the world. From the ashes if need be."

A pause stretched between them.

"Make sure you're on the side that wants to see what that world is."

Norman's jaw ticked, but his posture didn't change.

"Awfully big of you to threaten a dying man," he said dryly. "I've heard better threats from people on the street."

The man pressed his hands against the desk, lowering himself enough to be eye level with Norman.

"Where is the spider?"

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:08:42+0000

You'd think I'd be excited. I have Spider Sense.

That means I'm going to have the rest of it too—the strength, the speed, the agility. Superpowers.

And yet… I'm not even a little happy about it.

Because what set it off wasn't some falling brick or speeding car. Who the hell was he? Why did he make my skin crawl before he even looked at me? I didn't want to leave the plaza, but if I had tried to stay it would have tipped him off.

I couldn't risk it.

Was he watching me because of what Norman had told me? He said eyes were watching, but I don't know, it felt too on the nose. Maybe I'm being paranoid… but if I write it off and something does happen?

No. No, don't do that. That's a trap.

It's not your fault if something happens.

You're not clairvoyant, you're just—

Okay.

Okay.

I might get the chance to do whatever a spider can. But right now? I can't fight. Fuck, I wish I could.

Back in my own body, I didn't have to. Big guy like me? People thought twice. Now? I'd be lucky to intimidate someone now that I'm built like a praying mantis.

My cousins would suggest working out, getting muscle built up. That meant I'd actually have to put the effort in, and the lazy bastard in me is crying at the thought alone. I almost wish right about now that Mand's threats to haunt me would come true. He'd push me to work out. I work better with motivation, but then again, who doesn't?

My willpower sucks.

Yeah, that's always been a problem. I'm actually getting to live one of my greatest childhood fantasies, and I'm already on the verge of chickening out because it requires me to do something.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

Snap.

I blink, and suddenly Harry's fingers are waving in front of my face. He's close—closer than he was a second ago. I didn't even notice him lean in.

"Pete, you okay?"

"Huh?" The word stumbles out before I can catch it.

"Do I need to call May? You're starting to worry me."

His voice is gentler now, and he leans back into the passenger seat, watching me carefully.

"No, I'm good," I lie, trying to shake the doubt off my shoulders like it's something physical I can peel off. "Sorry. I'm just... getting tired."

If Harry could tell I was bluffing, he didn't say anything. Instead, he leaned back in his seat like nothing was wrong, gaze shifting to the window as he let it slide.

"As long as you're sure," he said, tone light but not dismissive. "Did May say when you're clear to go back to school?"

"Yeah. Monday," I replied, nodding like that was the part of my life that still made sense.

The rest of the drive turned into a blur—buildings sliding past the windows, the radio humming low, and Harry tapping his fingers against the door in a lazy rhythm.

But I wasn't there, not really.

I was back in the plaza again, mentally trapped in that moment where I felt something inside me shift. That buzzing… that feeling. It felt like a string inside my skull had been plucked, if that even made sense. It's hard to even describe. From a throbbing pulse that stretched across my skull to more of a ripple. A touch guiding me in a direction, like a hand running through my hair, but deeper.

It was sharp, instant, and directional—and somehow I just knew.

I don't understand how. I mean, yeah—I knew about Spider Sense. I'd read the comics, after all. I watched the movies and television shows. To be honest, I'd spent too much time arguing with my friends about Spider-Man facts during school. Still, though… that's a lot different from feeling it. Even then, I shouldn't have been able to follow it so quickly. I shouldn't have reacted like it was second nature.

It didn't feel like it was just instinct. It felt familiar, like my brain was hardwired for it already. Like I'd always had it—like it was dormant, waiting for the right moment to start screaming.

The part that concerns me? It didn't feel wrong.

It felt right, and I don't know if that makes it better or worse.

I won't lie, Spider-Man had always been my favorite superhero, and I fantasized about getting to be him so many nights as a kid. So, is it because I already had an idea of how it would feel to have those powers? Or maybe it's because I'm in Peter's body.

What I do know is this:

Norman was worried about something, which meant that guy in the lobby? He's probably involved.

So, I have to be careful.

The car slowed in front of the house, headlights sweeping across the lawn and the familiar shape of the porch. I could already see the warm glow in the windows, and something about it made the whole day feel a lot heavier than it had been a minute ago. We'd barely come to a full stop when I glanced over at Harry.

"Hey, uh... you free tomorrow?"

Harry looked up from whatever he'd been zoning out on, then gave a half-shrug.

"I think so. Got a date with Gwen in the evening, but if it's early, I've got time."

I blinked. "Gwen? As in Gwen Stacy?"

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"You remember her? Guess you weren't kidding about knowing names," he chuckled, clearly amused. "Yeah. It's our first date. I wanna make a good impression."

I didn't say anything at first. Just nodded a little. Gwen Stacy. If he's with her... then she's better off. There's less of a chance she dies because of Spider-Man. Maybe, just maybe, this version of her gets to live a quiet, long, completely normal life. The kind that never makes headlines.

"Huh…" I said, stalling for a second while my brain scrambled. Then it hit me. I snapped my fingers. "Take her to the Sea Fire Grill."

Harry tilted his head.

"Sea Fire Grill?"

"Yeah. I hear they have great branzino."

What I wasn't going to say is that I had made up my mind that if I ever went to Manhattan in my old life that I'd go to the Sea Fire Grill. It'd been one of the few restaurants I'd kept in the back of my head for years once I got the idea of becoming an author cemented in it.

Who knows, maybe Peter Parker could become an author in this world on the side? If I couldn't be a genius, being an author was certainly on the table.

"Really?" He gave me a look that was half confusion, half impressed.

I just smiled.

"Trust me on this one."

"I'll look it up," he said, then leaned forward a bit. "So, what's up? What'd you have in mind for tomorrow?"

I scratched the back of my neck, a little sheepish.

"Well… I kinda hate to ask, but do you think you could help give me a wardrobe update?"

Harry blinked like he'd misheard me.

"Wait. You… what?"

"Come on," I said, trying to play it off. "I'd like to try something different. But hey—if you don't want to be the guy responsible for a better-dressed Peter Parker, I totally understand…"

That's about as far as I got before Harry held up a hand like he was swearing an oath.

"Stop right there, Parker. I got you."

I grinned.

"I've been trying to get you to update your clothes for years," he said, already sounding way too hyped. "You've got it, buddy. I'll be here first thing in the morning."

He looked downright triumphant. Like I'd just agreed to let him makeover a cartoon character.

Honestly? I was kind of looking forward to it.

The door clicked open, and I stepped out into the evening air. It was cooler now, the sun dipping just below the rooftops, giving everything that soft orange tint that made the neighborhood feel like a painting. I was halfway to the gate when Harry leaned over to glance past me, then let out a small laugh.

"Should've known May would be waiting for ya," he said, nodding toward the porch next door.

I followed his gaze. There she was—sitting with Anna Watson on her front steps, arms folded casually, a cup of something in her hand. Her eyes found me in an instant, and there was something in her expression—warm, sure, but… playful. Mischievous, even.

Harry squinted.

"Why does she look like she's up to something?"

I sighed.

"Probably because she's trying to get me to meet Anna's niece. MJ."

His head snapped back like he'd just been handed a death sentence.

"Oh, she's trying to play matchmaker? I'm so sorry…" He gave me this mock-sympathetic frown, like I was marching straight to my doom.

I didn't correct him. I just smiled. Joke's on him—if he knew what MJ was actually like, he'd be the one knocking on her door.

But even still… not tonight. I wasn't ready for that.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry."

"You bet, buddy. Take it easy."

He gave me a two-finger salute as Bernard pulled the limo away, leaving me in the quiet hum of crickets and porch lights flicking on one by one. I made my way across the yard, and May called me out before I even had a chance to wave.

"Peter," she called gently. I veered over to the Watsons' porch.

"Evening, Anna," I said with a smile, stepping up and slipping my hands in my pockets. "How are you?"

She looked at me kindly, that sort of way older folks have of peering at your soul like it's written on your forehead.

"We've been wondering how you're feeling, sweetheart."

I gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Getting there," I said. "Some of it's still foggy. Feels like I woke up in someone else's shoes."

It wasn't a lie, technically.

She nodded, and—thankfully—didn't press. There wasn't any mention of her niece. I half-expected some forced introduction, a door opening, the words "Mary Jane, come say hello" flying through the air like a landmine. But it didn't come.

Maybe I got lucky.

"I think I'm gonna lay down," I told them before either of them could suggest anything else. "Long day."

May didn't argue. Just gave me that small, tight-lipped smile of hers that said she understood more than she let on.

I slipped inside through the front door, the scent of home wrapping around me like an old hoodie—faintly of coffee, wood polish, and whatever had been cooked earlier in the evening. The lights were dim, TV murmuring in the background.

Uncle Ben was in the living room, half-reclined in his chair, flipping through channels with a kind of practiced aimlessness that only dads and uncles seem to perfect. I dropped onto the couch beside him without a word, sinking into the cushions and letting the quiet buzz of the screen wash over me.

I don't even remember when it happened, but somewhere between a commercial for laundry detergent and an old sitcom rerun, my eyes drifted closed.

And I slept.

When I open my eyes again, I'm not on the couch.

I'm in my bed.

Upstairs.

What the hell?

It takes a second to register, but then it clicks—Ben must've carried me up. A wave of guilt rolls in before I can stop it. He shouldn't have done that. Not with his back.

I sit up, shoulders stiff, and glance toward the window. The sky's barely blue, just that early morning gray where the sun's about to make its entrance but hasn't quite pulled back the curtain. I didn't realize I'd slept that long.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stretch once, then wander over to the desk. I queue up some beginner physics videos on YouTube, then crack open Peter's textbook with all the notes in it. I flip to a clean notebook and start copying things down in my own handwriting, trying to make sense of it in my way.

It's only after thirty minutes of scribbling diagrams and half-understood equations that I realize something.

I'm not wearing glasses, and everything's crystal clear.

I turn around in the chair, eyes landing on the glasses resting neatly on the nightstand. There's a pause—just a second—and then a smile starts to creep up.

So. My body's finally adapting? Guess I'll have to come up with a reason I suddenly don't need glasses anymore. Or... maybe not.

I look back at them, lenses catching the soft glow from the window. I could keep wearing

them. Pull a Clark Kent. Nobody expects a glasses-wearing "dweeb" to be anything super.

I mean, who would?

I pull the notebook back into my lap, spinning my pen between my fingers. The next YouTube video auto-plays, a soft British accent walking me through Newton's laws like they're bedtime stories. The equations in the book don't look as confusing anymore. Still complicated, yeah, but they're not gibberish. Like my brain had just… recalibrated overnight.

It's hard to explain.

There's this rhythm to it now. Like I'm not just reading—I'm following. Tracing paths I didn't see before. The formulas aren't second nature, but they click. I can look at a diagram and actually understand what it's trying to show me, not just squint at it until my eyes gloss over.

I pause the video, jotting down a few key terms in the margins.

Conservation of momentum.

Impulse.

Center of mass.

It feels less like I'm learning from scratch and more like I'm remembering the rules of a game I haven't played in years. I can't recite them blind, but once I see them… something just unlocks.

I check the clock—forty-five minutes in. I haven't zoned out once.

Weird.

Weird, but… exciting. I mean, if this is what it feels like to have Peter Parker's brain chemistry working with mine? No complaints. Maybe I can catch up to the guy he was supposed to be. Maybe I don't need to fake my way through this forever.

I scribble down a question in the margin—How does angular momentum affect swinging trajectory?

Part of me already knows what it's leading to.

I stare at it for a second too long, then shake it off and keep going.

There's a warmth creeping across the carpet now. That soft, amber pre-sunrise glow, the kind that makes you feel like the day's still deciding whether it wants to begin or not. It pours in through the blinds and hits the edge of my textbook, making the ink shimmer just enough to catch my attention.

I lean forward again, eyes narrowing as I start another problem. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I'm not doing it because I have to.

I'm doing it because I want to.

And that? That might be the biggest change yet.

I cap my pen and set it down with a quiet sigh, stretching back until the chair creaks under me. My back pops once, then twice. Yeah… that's the signal. I've officially hit the wall. Even my brain, now running smoother than it ever did in my old body, has its limits.

And yet—I've still got energy.

Like the kind that buzzes under your skin when you've had one too many cups of coffee and the walls feel like they're closing in. I drum my fingers on the desk, then glance over my shoulder toward the closet.

I know what I should do.

...but then there's the other voice. The lazy bastard. The one that whispers sweet nothings like, "We could just... lay down for a little while. Maybe catch up on some videos. No shame in that. Rest is productive, too."

Uh-huh. Real productive.

I push myself up and walk to the closet before that inner voice can drag me back to bed. Joggers. Faded gray. Worn-out t-shirt with a stretched collar and a graphic so faded I can't even tell what it used to be. Perfect. If I'm going to suffer, I might as well look like I'm halfway to the grave already.

I change, splash some water on my face in the bathroom, and run my fingers through my hair just enough to make it look like I meant to roll out of bed looking like this. Grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and head out the door before I can talk myself out of it.

The air hits me first.

Cool and crisp, with that faint dampness still hanging in it from the dew. It wraps around me like a slap and a hug at the same time. The sky's still more pink than blue, and the neighborhood hasn't fully woken up yet. It's that magic hour—when everything feels like it belongs to you, even if just for a little while.

Oh, this is going to suckkkkkkkk…

I ease into a jog. Legs feel weird. Too long, too light. Like I've just strapped stilts onto my old self and dared gravity to notice. My knees wobble. My arms swing too much. This isn't running… I'm torturing myself.

But I keep going, because I need to.

Half a block in, I'm already hating it. The lazy voice starts making its comeback: "You've proven your point. Look at you, exercising. Let's go home and make a victory omelet."

Nope.

I push forward, even as my feet slap the pavement like they're filing a complaint with every step. A dog walker passes by—little brown mutt with a huge tongue and even huger eyes. The guy gives me a polite nod. I manage one back, trying not to look like I'm seconds from death.

A few kids speed past on bikes, one tossing newspapers like he's in a time loop from the '90s. The papers hit driveways and stoops with that satisfying thwap sound. I slow just long enough to glance at one sticking out of a mailbox—Daily Bugle.

Of course.

There's a guy sitting outside a café across the street, coffee in hand, reading the headline. I can't see it from here, but it makes me smile anyway. God, I hope Jameson's still around. The man might've been the human equivalent of sandpaper, but you couldn't say he didn't care. When he wasn't going full conspiracy theorist on Spider-Man, he actually was a great journalist.

Forest Hills starts opening up around me—more people out now, walking their dogs or stepping out to grab bagels. A group of pigeons scatter as I pass, and a chorus of birds up in the trees squabble like they're deciding who gets to chirp the loudest.

The streets are narrow but familiar. Rows of brick townhouses with little patches of grass out front, all damp with dew. Porch lights flicker off one by one as the sun inches higher, and every so often, I catch the faint scent of bacon wafting from a cracked kitchen window.

My pace evens out—barely—and I make it another few blocks before my lungs start sending angry texts to the rest of my body. The burn in my chest comes slow but sharp. My legs ache. My feet feel like they've turned into bricks. But somehow, I'm still going.

I pass Midtown High.

That's when it hits me again. I'll be walking through those doors on Monday.

God.

I was never a fan of school. In my old life, I treated it like a prison sentence. But now? I look at that building and wonder... if this really is Peter's brain working with me—if that switch is really flipped—maybe school won't be a nightmare this time. Maybe I'll get it. Maybe I'll even enjoy it.

Weirder things have happened.

I keep running. A little farther now.

Down the hill. Across the quiet intersection. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My shirt's sticking to my back. My breath's ragged and shallow. Every muscle in my legs is cursing my name.

But I don't stop.

Not until I reach the top of the stairs that lead down to the waterfront. The air shifts again—cooler, wetter, and I can smell it before I even see it. The river. That mix of salt, stone, and something metallic, like old train tracks after the rain.

I walk the last few steps down and stop at the railing, sweat pouring off me, lungs ready to revolt.

But I smile.

Manhattan stretches across the water like something out of a postcard—buildings rising in silhouette against the early morning light. It's quiet. Peaceful. Just the sound of water lapping against the shore and a few gulls screaming like they're late to something important.

I lean against the railing, panting, shirt clinging to me like wet tissue paper.

Despite the burning lungs, the aching calves, and the fact I still look like someone dumped me out of a washing machine—I feel good.

Better than good.

Fulfilled.

It's been about a week since I woke up like this. Since I looked in the mirror and saw Peter Parker staring back at me. And for the first time… it doesn't feel like a glitch in the Matrix.

It feels real.

It feels right.

This is my second chance.

And I'm not gonna waste it.

"On your left!" a voice called out suddenly.

I turned, startled, just in time to jerk my body sideways and avoid getting shoulder-checked into the East River. A girl slowed to a stop next to me, her sneakers skidding slightly against the concrete as she leaned against the railing like she'd just run a marathon in fast-forward. She was panting hard, bent slightly at the waist, but grinning wide like it had all been some kind of thrill ride.

Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, bouncing a little as she caught her breath. Earbuds dangled from one hand, swinging lazily with each inhale. She looked over, still smiling.

"You good?" she asked between breaths, giving me a quick once-over.

"Oh, yeah," I huffed, trying not to sound like I was dying inside. I waved a hand vaguely toward the skyline. "Just... embracing the cardio-induced suffering."

She laughed—bright and easy, like it came from somewhere deep in her chest.

And then it hit me.

The laugh. The voice. Something about it flipped a switch in my brain, like a movie reel catching on a frame I'd already seen a hundred times.

I blinked. My eyes finally decided to catch up with my ears.

Her hair—how had I not noticed it sooner?

It wasn't just red. It wasn't ginger or strawberry blonde or that auburn shade people try to pass off as "copper." No. This was red.

The kind of red that cartoon characters had in the late 90s and early 2000s. That perfectly saturated, comic book, Hex Girls lead singer, stop-you-in-your-tracks red.

And it was all of it.

No roots showing. No fading. No accidental dye job. This was main character red. The kind that rewired an entire generation of kids into developing oddly specific taste in women by age nine.

I stared just a second too long.

No. No, no, no, no, no…

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

Is the universe actually plotting against me?

Because unless the multiverse decided to shuffle the deck really weird this time, I'm standing next to Mary Jane Watson. On my first real run. In public. Dripping sweat like a human waterfall. Wearing a T-shirt older than time.

Cool.

Fantastic.

Exactly the kind of moment I didn't want to have today.

I swallowed hard, glancing back at her. She was focused on the skyline again, arms stretched out wide, eyes half-lidded like she was soaking in the sunrise.

God, she didn't even realize what she just did. She might as well have roundhouse kicked my brain. And of course... of course May had been trying to set me up with her. She probably would've waited until breakfast to spring it on me.

I turned back to the river, resting my forearms on the railing and exhaling slow. Maybe—maybe—if I played it cool, this would be just a blip. Maybe she'd run off in a few minutes and I'd chalk it up to a hallucination brought on by dehydration and muscle fatigue.

Then again, when have I ever been that lucky?

"You know," she finally says, cutting through the silence. "That's really not the kind of clothes you should be wearing if you're going on a run."

I blink and turn toward her, face scrunching up in something halfway between a wince and a laugh.

"Yeah... I figured that out like a minute into it," I admit, brushing the back of my hand across my forehead. "I don't have any tank tops at home. Otherwise, I would've gone full athlete mode."

She raises a brow, one side of her mouth tugging up into a lopsided smirk.

"Well, if you were trying to look like you belong in a '90s sitcom, you nailed it."

"Ha ha…" I roll my eyes, lips twitching into a crooked grin as I turn back toward the water. "Yeah, I'll add that to the list of looks I'm crushing today. Right next to Sweaty Goblin."

She laughs again.

"I didn't plan this out very well," I add, shrugging like the sweat soaking through my shirt wasn't slowly becoming a national disaster. "It was spur of the moment, really."

Her arms stretch overhead in a lazy arc as she lets out a breath, like she's not even breaking a sweat, like this—this early morning run with the skyline and the river breeze—is just her version of a coffee break.

"I mean, that's kind of the best kind, isn't it?" she says. "If you plan stuff, you give yourself too many reasons not to do it. Spur of the moment makes it harder to chicken out."

That… actually hit.

I look over at her again, studying her face a little more now that the initial cosmic slap of recognition has passed. She's still not really looking at me. Her eyes are on the water. The sun's just starting to crest, lighting her from the side like some cinematographer's dream. Her skin has that just-after-run glow, but it works on her. Like everything does.

She's got that kind of presence that people write songs about.

And here I am, dressed like I robbed a Goodwill, trying to regulate my breathing so I don't sound like a wheezing balloon.

"I guess you're right," I say after a second. "Still hurts, though."

"Yeah," she says, letting her arms fall as she cracks her neck with a satisfying pop. "But at least you showed up. Most people just keep saying 'I'll start tomorrow.'"

Oh, you mean like me? LITERALLY, ME.

I can't help it. I smile.

"Is this the part where you tell me I should hydrate and stretch and start tracking macros?"

"God, no," she says, immediately grimacing. "That's how you end up insufferable."

"Good, because my heart is pounding in my ears right now so I doubt I'd hear you." I pant with emphasis.

She snorts, then offers her hand, finally—finally—turning fully to face me.

"Mary Jane, but everyone calls me MJ." She says.

I look down at her hand, then back up at her.

Of course it is.

"Peter," I say, taking her hand in mine. It's casual, quick—but the moment her fingers wrap around mine, something flares. Not electricity or fate or anything that dramatic—just heat. A jolt of oh no, she's real.

Her lips quirk like she noticed it too, even if she doesn't say anything.

"So, Peter…" she repeats my name, testing the sound of it like she's deciding if it fits. And even though it technically is my name now, it still lands weird in my ears. Like trying on a jacket that used to belong to someone else—it fits, sure, but it still smells like them.

"You live around here?"

"Yeah, Queens," I reply, nodding toward the neighborhood behind me like I've been here longer than a week.

Her eyebrows go up, interested.

"My aunt—Anna—lives around here too."

Well, here's my opening. Time to make sure when the inevitable introduction happens, she's already aware.

"Anna? As in Anna Watson?" I ask, already knowing exactly where this is going but playing dumb anyway.

"Yeah?" she says slowly, giving me a look like she's trying to figure out if I'm a stalker or just weird. "How do you know that?"

"I'm her neighbor," I say, like the universe didn't just swing a bat directly at my kneecaps. "May Parker's my aunt. They're, uh… good friends."

MJ blinks, then breaks into a smile that looks way too amused for my current emotional stability.

"You're that Peter?"

I feel my soul deflate just a little.

"Guilty."

"Well," she says, folding her arms and grinning like she just solved a riddle, "you're a lot sweatier than I pictured."

"Hi… I promise I'm not like this normally," I say with the kind of sheepish smile that probably does nothing to help my case, considering I look like I just lost a fight with a sprinkler.

MJ snorts.

"I don't know, I kind of dig the look."

I let out a dry laugh, then rub the back of my neck, my hand damp with sweat.

"I gotta ask…" I glance sideways at her. "Have they been trying to get you to meet me a lot lately?"

She gives me that look. Head tilted, one eyebrow creeping up, the smirk practically weaponized now.

"You mean like… every single time I stop by?"

I groan.

"Fantastic."

"Yeah," she nods, mock-sincere. "I've been told we'd 'really get along' about five times now. Once with a wink."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she says with a shrug, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "It was either this or getting set up with her pharmacist's grandson, who apparently 'loves science and knitting.'"

"Well," I gesture to myself, "I can't knit, but I did spend the morning watching physics videos, so…"

MJ looks at me for a beat longer than expected. Her smile softens just a bit.

"Guess you're already ahead of the competition."

"I mean, how can I compete with someone who knits?" I throw my hands up, feigning defeat. "That's, like, peak boyfriend material."

I shouldn't have said that, but the words come out of my mouth quicker than I can stop it. At least she doesn't seem to mind it.

MJ laughs—really laughs this time. It's unfiltered and loud, the kind that makes the corner of your mouth twitch even if you don't mean to smile. She shakes her head, breathing in the river air as it drifts past us.

I feel like I need to be put in prison. I'm twenty-four, she's fourteen. I should not even make a boyfriend joke.

"I suppose it's better we met this way," she says, stretching her arms behind her back. "It's going to be a lot less awkward when they try to introduce us now."

"Oh, it's still gonna be awkward," I reply, leaning back on the railing beside her. "Just... less awkward."

She grins.

For a second, neither of us says anything. The river glints in the early light, and somewhere behind us, a cyclist's bell rings faintly. I steal a glance at her—cheeks still flushed from the run, hair a bit frizzy from the breeze—and I'm suddenly very aware of how utterly unprepared I was for any of this.

"I'm actually staying with Aunt Anna now, so..." MJ says after a minute or two, her steps falling into rhythm with mine. "Do you want to go back with me?"

"Uh, does that involve running?"

"No, I promise." She grins, eyes bright with amusement. "I don't want to explain to May why her nephew looks like a drowned rat."

"Hey, you know what... that's—that's fair."

"Not that it's going to help much, considering..." she adds with a smirk, but lets it trail off, like she's already said too much.

We fell into a steady walk along the sidewalk, passing under trees that hadn't quite figured out if it was spring or summer yet. The sun's climbing now, casting gold across rooftops and car hoods. There's dew still clinging to the grass in yards, glistening like frost that overslept.

And somehow… we're just talking. Like this isn't awkward. Like she didn't just meet the version of Peter Parker who absolutely isn't Peter Parker.

It's funny how natural it feels.

"So, wait," she says, turning to glance at me. "You were in a coma?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"What happened? Why are you running?"

There's something about the way she asks—equal parts genuine concern and bafflement—that makes me laugh under my breath.

"Well, I don't know exactly what happened." I exhale, trying to find the balance between the truth and what the world already knows. "I was on a school field trip to Oscorp. After that... it's blank. Next thing I remember, I'm waking up in a hospital bed and they're telling me I've been out for three weeks."

She blinks.

"And you've got amnesia?"

"Retrograde amnesia," I nod. "Some stuff's still there, but other parts are just... gone. It's like somebody reached into my head and yanked out the important stuff with a pair of tongs."

MJ stares for a second longer than I expect her to, brow furrowed like she's trying to read me, but not in a suspicious way. More... thoughtful. And then:

"Okay. Again—why were you running?! You should be resting."

"I needed to move," I say with a shrug. "It felt like the right thing to do."

"Most people recovering from a coma start with walking to the kitchen. You went full Rocky montage."

"I'll have you know… I've been up and moving for about a week. I've been working up to it!"

"But running through Queens barely a week after coming out of a coma? That's insane!"

"Yeah, well," I huff, nudging a loose pebble off the sidewalk with my foot. "Sitting around just makes me feel stuck. Like if I don't get out of my own head once in a while, I'll lose what little of it I've got left."

There's a pause. A quiet one. No jokes from her this time.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I get that."

We keep walking. No rush. The neighborhood starts to stir a little more—cars rumbling to life, the smell of someone's burnt toast wafting from an open kitchen window. We pass a yard where an old sprinkler's still ticking away from earlier in the morning, little droplets catching the sunlight like glitter.

"I mean," I say, glancing at her, "it was either this or risk falling down some Wikipedia rabbit hole trying to figure out who I was before everything went sideways."

"Plus," she adds, folding her arms, "you never know when you'll scroll too far and learn something weird about yourself. Like that you used to have a MySpace account dedicated to yo-yo tricks."

"I swear if that actually comes up…"

She laughs. It's loud, effortless, and it feels like it cuts straight through the morning haze. I don't think I've laughed that easily in days.

And yeah… maybe this wasn't how we were supposed to meet. But as far as alternate timelines go? It's not the worst version.

By the time we got back to the house, Uncle Ben was on the porch grabbing the newspaper. He looked up at me, eyebrows slightly raised with a quiet curiosity. I gave him a small, knowing smile. Yeah, I'd just vanished for about an hour, only to show up walking alongside a girl. If it were my mom or Grandpa, I'd be bracing for a full interrogation—or worse, a teasing blitz.

Ben just nodded once, then turned and went back inside without a word.

It was weird how understanding he was. May, on the other hand? I'd probably have to answer fifty questions before she'd be satisfied. But Ben… I think he gets me more than I deserve.

MJ glanced at Ben, a curious tilt to her head.

"I suppose that's your uncle?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Yep. That's Uncle Ben. I guess I better get inside before May finds out and throws a party."

She laughed softly.

"Alright, see you around then."

"Oh, I'm sure I will," I said, watching her head up the steps.

I stepped inside and let the door click shut behind me. The smell of coffee hit first—strong, a little burnt, in that comforting way only old drip machines can manage. Ben was already at the dining table, sitting in his usual spot, hands wrapped around a steaming mug like it was the anchor to his morning routine.

He raised his brows over the rim and took a long sip, eyes following me as I walked in.

"Not a word…" I said, pointing a finger as I passed him. "Please."

Ben set the cup down with the faintest clink, that same amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"She won't hear a word from me about it," he promised, voice casual. "I'll let it be a nice surprise."

God bless this man. My knight in maroon robes.

I exhaled and dropped into the chair across from him, not realizing how dead my legs were until gravity did most of the work for me. My whole body groaned in silent protest. Muscles trembling, lungs still recovering. If I moved again, I was pretty sure I'd spontaneously combust.

Ben gave me a look.

"Only thing, though… where were you?"

"I went for a run," I said, slumping in my seat and letting my arms hang.

He blinked once. Slowly.

"You… Peter Parker… went for a run?"

"Yeah." I nodded, and then added with a tired grin, "It's hard to explain. It just felt like the right thing to do."

Ben leaned back slightly, lifting his mug again.

"Kiddo," he said, "you're full of surprises lately."

I smirked, dragging a hand through my damp hair.

"So I've been told."

Ben sipped his coffee, that knowing glint in his eye sharpening just enough to make me wary.

"So that's MJ, huh?" he asked, casual as anything.

I groaned.

"Yes…" The word crawled out of my throat like it had been dragged against gravel. "Yes, it is."

"She seems nice," he added, way too smoothly.

"Yeah," I muttered, slouching lower in my chair. "She is."

There was a pause. A beat of silence long enough to feel staged.

"I owe May five dollars," he said.

I blinked.

"What?"

Ben took another sip like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell.

"What the hell?" I said, sitting up. "You two bet on whether I'd meet her?"

"Not whether you'd meet her," he said, lifting a finger. "Whether you'd actually talk to her."

I opened my mouth, and closed it again.

"She said it'd happen today, didn't she?"

"She said you wouldn't be able to help yourself once you got a look at her," he said, with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd known all along this conversation was coming. "I said you'd duck and run."

For fuck's sake, guys… SHE'S FOURTEEN. No. JUST NO.

"I was literally on a run!" I protested.

Ben just raised his eyebrows, like that only proved her point.

I slumped back again and groaned.

"Unbelievable…"

"By the way, language."

I dropped my head onto the table.

This family was going to kill me before any supervillain had the chance.

I try to hide my embarrassment as I sit up, catching a whiff of my sweat and wincing. I need a shower.

"In my defense," I said, already rising to my feet, "I didn't know it was her."

"I'm sure you didn't, son," he replied, the warmth in his voice enough to disarm me a little. "You still talked to her."

"Yeah, yeah…" I muttered, rubbing at my face. "I'm going to go take a shower before May smells me and thinks I've been dumpster diving."

"Good idea," Ben called after me. "Hot water's on. Try not to use it all."

I shot him a tired thumbs-up over my shoulder and started up the stairs. My legs were still jelly, each step a personal attack. Again, the lazy bastard in me is creeping over my shoulder going 'See what happens when you don't listen to me? SEE?!'

Yeah, fuck off. While I didn't want to meet MJ yet, I still consider the run worth it. Then again, the morning is still young and there's time to change that.

Please, let Harry get here soon.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:10:28+0000

The shower is better than I could have hoped for. The hot water splashing against my skin feels great, and my muscles are loving it. I get finished and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso. Heading back to my room, I find Peter's best clothes that don't look horribly geeky. It's honestly a t-shirt with long sleeves under it, with brown cargo pants. Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon style, I can dig that.

The fabric's stiff from sitting in the drawer too long—creased at the sleeves, a little too new-smelling, like laundry detergent trying to cover up disuse. I tug it on anyway. The mirror catches my eye and I glance at it, catching the drip of water down my neck. My hair's a mess—just damp enough to be annoying, not wet enough to look intentional. There's no point in trying to fix it, Peter's hair is unruly anyway.

But it does work for him. I'll give him that.

I look at the glasses, and lift them to where I can gaze through the lenses. I know, I can see perfectly fine without them, but I'd like to see if it's that drastic of a difference. The lenses make everything a bit blurrier, like there's a faint haze, everything's slightly out of focus. That's a headache waiting to happen.

Laying them back down, I head for the door. At least I won't have to worry about needing glasses from now on. I never did like wearing them too much, even if it helped prevent my migraines.

Downstairs, the smell of breakfast hangs in the air—eggs, toast, something vaguely cinnamon if I'm not imagining it. The table's already set, and May smiles at me as I slide into the chair like I haven't just been out running halfway across Queens.

No one says much. Just the quiet sounds of silverware tapping ceramic, Ben rustling the paper, and the occasional clink of a glass being set down. It's… peaceful, honestly. Like they're giving me space without realizing it. Or maybe they do realize it.

The only thing May says—lightly, without judgment—is, "Would've been nice to know you were going out, sweetheart. Just so we knew."

I nod, mouth full, and give her a quick thumbs-up. That's enough for now.

Afterward, I help bring the plates to the sink. I barely finish drying my hands when there's a knock at the front door. One of those casual three-beat knocks—light, but not shy. I already know who it is.

I open it to find Harry standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like we're about to get away with something.

"You ready to go?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, chuckling.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Is that Harry, I hear?" May calls from the kitchen.

Harry steps in just as she rounds the corner, and the way his face softens says he's been here before—maybe not often, but enough to remember the smell of May's cookies or the shape of the furniture.

"Mrs. Parker," he smiles, pulling her into a quick hug.

"Dear, you should come over more."

"I plan on it," he says, meaning it. "I've been busy lately." He glances toward me. "Speaking of which, Pete and I got a big day ahead of us and not a whole lot of time, so maybe we can catch up sometime next week?"

"Of course, sweetheart," May nods. "You two behave."

"Define behave," I mumble, and Harry's already dragging me out the door.

"Alright, so you got a style in mind or do I get a chance to mold you into my Michelangelo?" Harry asks, putting his hands out toward me like he's already mentally pinning me into a turtleneck. Which, ew. Turtlenecks? They cling to my neck too much. I like to breathe.

"Uh, I was hoping to just kind of wing it. Nothing flashy, but not what I had before."

"So you're not dressing to kill. Got it." He gives me a side glance, one eyebrow cocked like I just walked into a courtroom without a lawyer. "There a reason you want to do this?"

I keep walking.

"You're not trying to impress this MJ girl, are you?"

"HA! Shut up!" I laugh, already shaking my head as we make it to the car. "Please, can we not mention her while we're still on the property line?"

"Oh, I smell a development. What happened?"

"I went for a run this morning and I—"

"Wait, you went on a run? You, Peter Parker… went on a run?"

"I regret it, yes, but that's beside the point."

"But you went on a run..." He's staring at me now like he expects me to pull off a mask and reveal I'm actually a shapeshifter.

"I know, I know," I sigh. "The world's ending. Dogs and cats are living together. The nerd ran."

He snorts.

"You sure you didn't hit your head this morning?"

As I sit down and buckle my seat belt, I press my tongue against my cheek trying to avoid my usual sarcastic comments, because frankly they come off a bit too brass for some people's liking.

"I wish. It'd explain a lot. But do you want me to tell you what happened or are you going to focus on the fact I willingly exercised?"

"Okay, okay… you went on a run and…"

"Thank you," I mockingly bow.

Bernard starts the car and we take off for the city.

"I ended up at the waterfront," I say, watching the houses blur past through the window, "and she ended up being there too."

Harry doesn't jump in right away. He gives it a second, just long enough for me to think maybe he's going to let it slide. But no.

"Total coincidence, or...?"

I shrug. Knowing how Peter is practically destined to meet MJ at one point in his life, it certainly wasn't a coincidence.

"I didn't know she'd be there. I was trying to burn off energy—to do something productive that wasn't in a book."

"So you did it for stress relief? I thought your version of that was homework?"

No, it's not. I hate homework, but Peter… I guess he might like that.

"Still is," I mutter. "Just trying to add cardio."

That gets a short laugh from him. I lean my head back against the seat, feeling the coolness of the window through my hair. The scent of leather seats, faint cologne—Harry's, not mine—and the quiet hum of the engine settle between us for a beat.

"Alright, Fabio… continue on with the story." Harry motioned toward me.

"Right," I straighten my back. "I was relaxing on a railing when she showed up, nearly running into me."

"Classic," Harry grins. "Were you shirtless and glowing from the workout or was this more 'sweaty gremlin crouched on a pier' energy?"

"Definitely the latter," I deadpan. "I was half a second away from heaving into the river."

"So you met her as your best self. Good strategy."

I give him a slow blink. "Anyway… we started talking. Just small stuff. I didn't even realize who she was at first. She mentioned an aunt who lives in Queens and then it clicked."

Harry lifts an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just nods like he's filing the info away somewhere behind those rich kid sunglasses.

"That MJ," Harry says.

"Yeah," I nod. "That MJ."

The city skyline's getting closer now—buildings creeping taller, traffic inching thicker. Bernard's gliding through it all like it's just background noise. I watch as we pass a street vendor with a cart of roasted nuts, and the smell somehow seeps through the closed windows, warm and sugary.

"She was cool though," I add, maybe a little too quickly. "Like, actually cool."

"Is she pretty?"

I don't answer, mostly because the thought of commenting on an underage girl's appearance makes me sick to my stomach.

"I don't know," I manage. "I was out of breath, about ready to throw up. I didn't pay that much attention."

"You gonna see her again?"

I open my mouth, then pause.

"I don't know, maybe? We didn't exchange numbers or anything."

"Oh, come on… you chickened out?"

"I did not chicken out!"

"You totally did!"

"Harry, I wasn't trying to get her number! I was trying to not die!" I retort, raising my voice slightly just to the point it cracks. I fucking hate puberty… I take a breath, and continue. "But she and I walked back together. She went into her aunt's place, so I'm guessing there's a good chance we'll see each other again."

Harry lets out a low whistle, not mocking—more like he's genuinely impressed.

"Well look at you, Pete. Going for a run, surviving it, and getting a casual walk home with a girl? You're evolving."

"Yeah, if I keep it up, I'll unlock the ability to speak in full sentences without sounding like my voice box is short-circuiting."

Harry laughs as Bernard takes the next turn, the city finally swallowing the last bits of suburbia behind us. The noise level picks up—car horns, a siren somewhere distant, and the rhythmic bass of a stereo from a passing car vibrating through the window.

I shift in my seat, still feeling a little damp in places the towel didn't quite get. My shirt sticks to my back a little. Gross. I subtly peel it away without drawing attention.

"So… you feeling nervous?" Harry asks, tone casual, but I can hear the real question under it. The unspoken what are you trying to become, exactly?

I glance out the window again. "About shopping?"

"About everything."

I give a half-shrug.

"I just don't want to look like I did before. Doesn't feel like me anymore."

Harry doesn't say anything right away. I half-expect him to crack a joke, but instead he nods like he gets it—like he actually understands what it's like to outgrow your own skin.

"Well," he finally says, leaning forward to look out the windshield as we turn down a tighter street, "lucky for you, I know just the place. Low pressure, good fits, solid prices."

"Wait—are we not doing one of your high-end brand places?" I tease. "No gold-leaf silk jackets or imported Parisian leather?"

Harry grins.

"I figured we'd start you off in the kiddie pool before I take you to the deep end."

Bernard pulls up to the curb in front of a storefront that's wedged between a barber shop and a bubble tea place. The windows are tinted just enough that you can't fully see inside, but the clean lines of mannequins in the display window scream "not cheap" without being obnoxious.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and stare at the door for a second, heart starting to thump a little harder than I expected.

Harry's already halfway out when he leans back and says, "Come on, man. Let's get you upgraded."

As we step inside, I can already hear Roy Orbison faintly in the back of my mind—"Pretty Woman" looping on imaginary speakers while I picture myself trying on clothes I have no business being seen in. Knowing Harry, he'd be thrilled to do the full montage. Hell, he might have brought the soundtrack himself.

Honestly? I might just lean into it. For the bit. The workers probably won't appreciate me treating their job like a sitcom gag, but I've got some residual post-run serotonin bouncing around. Let's see how I feel after a shirt or two.

We don't get more than a few feet in before a woman at the counter greets us with that kind of customer service smile that says she's prepared for anything—up to and including a teenager trying on six coats just to leave without buying a single thing.

"What can I do for you gentlemen today?" she asks, polite but sharp-eyed, already clocking Harry's expensive watch and my decidedly not expensive cargo pants.

Harry doesn't miss a beat.

"My friend here is undergoing a full-blown fashion renaissance."

I shoot him a look.

"That's a little dramatic."

"He's evolving," Harry continues, gesturing to me like I'm a museum exhibit titled Before Style. "We're hoping to find him some looks that say, 'I'm cool but not trying too hard,' and also, 'No, ma'am, I don't work for Geek Squad.'"

The woman's smile doesn't fade, but I see the glint of amusement behind her eyes. "Got it. No polos, no khakis, and we'll burn any sweater vests on sight."

"You're a saint," I mutter.

"Let me grab someone from the floor to help you two out," she says, already reaching for a headset. "Make yourselves comfortable."

As she walks away, Harry claps me on the back.

"Alright, Peter. You ready for your fashion redemption arc?"

I glance at the racks of clothes, the mirror-lined walls, and the faint scent of cologne, pressed cotton, and overpriced ambition hanging in the air.

"As long as I don't end up in a deep v-neck or anything leather, I think I'll survive."

He grins.

"No promises."

We go through it all.

There's the skater look—oversized tee, plaid overshirt, sneakers too white to trust. I don't hate it, but it doesn't feel like me. More like a persona I'd try on and then leave folded on the floor of someone else's life.

There's some retro 80s look Harry tries to pitch, complete with loud patterns and sunglasses that look like they belong on a synthwave album cover. Hard pass.

Eventually, we narrow it down. I find a rhythm. A style that actually clicks.

Darker colors. Deep maroons, charcoal grays, navy blues. Layers that feel like armor, but not too heavy. A fitted thermal henley under a broken-in brown jacket, something with structure but not stiffness. A couple tank tops for working out, and shorts that don't look like I stole them from a sixth grader.

Running sneakers—sleek, black-and-white, lightweight. Black K-Swisses for everyday wear. And, against all odds, a pair of combat boots that just feel right. Heavy enough to matter. Like they're made to last.

The woman helping us—who's been pretty patient through the whole montage—raises an eyebrow at the boots with the rest of the outfit.

"Bit of a mixed signal," she mutters.

Harry grins.

"That's his brand."

I change one last time and step out. Harry gives me a once-over, hand on his chin like he's about to cast me in a cologne commercial.

"Okay," he says, "this is working. You look good, Pete."

I nod slowly.

"Thanks."

"But there's something missing," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's clean. Sharp. But it doesn't feel… you."

He's right.

It takes me a second, but I feel it in my chest—this tiny itch of memory, like I've left the oven on somewhere back in a life that technically isn't mine.

The necklace.

I used to wear one. Silver pendant, black cord. Assassin's Creed insignia. A piece of who I was before all this. I didn't wear it often, thanks to the metal detectors at work always flagging me for secondary screening. But still, it was mine. Simple. Meaningful.

Do they even have Assassin's Creed in this world?

If they did, did they ruin it after 3 like I remember? Did Ubisoft go full corporate greed and never look back?

Not the point.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror—new clothes, new body, new world—and realize I need something. Something simple. A marker. A totem. Something quiet but grounding.

"Maybe a necklace," I say aloud, almost more to myself than Harry.

He perks up.

"Yeah? Like what—dog tags? Chain? Cross?"

I shake my head. "Nothing loud. Just… something personal."

He nods.

"There's a vintage spot a few blocks from here. We can swing by after this, if you want."

I glance down at the boots again, flexing my toes inside the thick leather.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's do that."

The shop is tucked between a laundromat and a bakery that smells like heaven dipped in powdered sugar. The kind of place you'd miss if you blinked—or if Harry wasn't actively dragging me toward it with the determination of a personal stylist on a mission.

A little bell jingles overhead as we step inside.

It's… cluttered. But intentionally so. Every surface feels curated in that chaotic "organized mess" way, like a museum run by fandom goblins. The air's thick with dust, faintly sweet—incense, maybe vanilla or patchouli—and there's soft jazz humming from a tinny speaker tucked behind the register.

The necklace display is a rotating rack jammed with every kind of chain you can imagine. Leather cords, beaded strands, braided hemp, polished metals. I spot a silver Imperial crest from Star Wars, the One Ring replica dangling from a fine gold chain, and more Deathly Hallows pendants than anyone in 2025 should reasonably still be selling.

Harry spins the rack idly, raising an eyebrow at a tiny plastic Poké Ball on a string. "You sure this is your vibe?"

"I'm looking," I mutter, fingers brushing over a dragonfly, an alien head, a miniature cassette tape.

Then I see it.

Bright. Silver. Shaped like a wolf's head.

Not cartoonish. Not stylized to death. It's got an edge—angular lines, eyes narrowed, ears back. Predatory but noble. Like something that'd sit around the neck of someone who walks alone but isn't alone.

I reach for it instinctively.

It's heavier than I expected. Not hollow. The cord it hangs from is a dark gray leather, already broken in and soft from use. The metal's cool against my fingers, but it doesn't feel cold.

Harry leans in.

"A wolf?"

I turn the pendant over once, letting the silver catch the light. It looks a little like the Witcher symbol from the Netflix show—less snarling, more regal. Clean lines. Like it was carved by someone who gave a damn.

"It's my favorite animal," I say quietly.

He studies me for a beat, then just nods.

"Good pick."

I loop it around my neck and feel the weight settle at the base of my throat. It feels… right. Like a name you didn't know you'd forgotten until someone said it.

"Let's check out," I say.

The outfits aren't far off from what I imagined Peter would wear anyway. That kind of layered, slightly rumpled confidence. The TASM vibe is strong—hoodies under jackets, sleeves pushed up, jeans that actually fit. It's practical. It's clean. It's… me.

Or, it's the version of me I always wished I could be.

Back then, clothes like this felt like fiction. Something that lived on mannequins and actors, not on guys like me. I was always just a little too broad in the shoulders, a little too soft around the middle. I wore what fit, not what I wanted.

Now, though—now it fits.

We climb back into the car, shopping bags in the trunk, and the necklace still resting warm against my chest like it's been there forever.

Harry glances at me as Bernard pulls away from the curb, heading back toward Queens. He looks me over once—not obnoxiously, just enough to catalog the change—and nods, satisfied.

"Definitely an improvement," he says.

I just smile—not anything big or dramatic. We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence, the city bleeding into suburbs again as the afternoon light slants longer across the pavement.

As I carry everything in, I can already feel the weight of their stares before I even make it past the front door.

Ben's eyebrows creep up so high they practically touch his hairline. May just stands there in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hand, looking like I've brought home a small furniture set instead of a few bags of clothes.

To be fair… it is a lot. Definitely more than I planned.

I set the bags down by the table and drop into the nearest chair with a sigh, half from exhaustion, half from knowing what's coming next.

"You had a busy day," Ben says, eyeing the haul like it might start multiplying. "Please tell me they were cheap."

"Cheap-ish?" I offer, wincing slightly. "Harry took care of everything."

May gasps softly, and I immediately regret phrasing it like that.

"Peter!" she scolds, stepping forward. "You shouldn't have had Harry do that."

"I didn't!" I sit up straighter, hands out defensively. "I swear, I didn't ask him to buy it all. I just wanted help picking something out that didn't look like it came from a clearance bin."

She crosses her arms, her look somewhere between concerned mother and disappointed tax auditor.

"I'll pay him back," I add quickly. "Even if it takes me until I'm thirty."

Ben chuckles under his breath.

"Something tells me you'd be owing him money for a lot longer than that, kiddo."

He catches sight of the necklace resting against my chest. It gleams slightly in the kitchen light—silver catching amber like a sunset on metal.

"That part of the shopping trip too?"

"Yeah. It was like ten bucks," I say, fingers brushing it instinctively. "You like it?"

"It's nice," Ben nods. "Looks like it means something."

"It does. Sort of." I don't really know how to explain that yet. But I feel the weight of it in a way I didn't expect—like a small anchor in a sea of change.

May's expression softens, but not all the way.

"Just promise me you won't rely on Harry for financial aid, dear. Or Norman," she adds with a subtle frown. "We can manage just fine without their help."

"I know," I say, and I mean it. "I didn't go looking for a handout."

She sighs, then leans over to press a kiss to the top of my damp hair. "We just don't want you to feel like you have to accept help when you've got us."

"I don't," I say. "I've got you guys. That's all I really need."

Ben leans back, satisfied.

"Good. Now go put those clothes away before I start thinking you're about to open a boutique upstairs."

"Don't tempt me!" I beam as I grab the bags and start hauling them upstairs. At least in Peter's body I have a way better center of balance. Hauling things upstairs has never been so easy!

I make it to the bedroom and kick the door shut behind me with my heel, dropping the bags onto the bed with a soft thud. There's a ridiculous amount of stuff—folded jeans, jackets layered over shirts, sneakers in their boxes. I stare at the pile like it personally offended me.

The closet groans when I open it, like it knows what I'm about to do. And yeah… it's not great in there. A graveyard of old shirts, oversized sweaters, and pants that probably never fit right in the first place. Most of it looks like it was bought with coupons and settled into, not chosen.

And now I've got to figure out where all this actual clothing goes.

I sigh and scrub a hand through my hair, already knowing I'm gonna make this worse before I make it better. I'm not what you'd call "organization-minded." My method has always been more… geological. Layered piles. Erosion over time.

Still, I pull everything out of the closet and start going through it. Some stuff I fold neatly on the bed. Some I just toss aside without ceremony. There's a pair of khakis in here that feel like they've personally wronged me.

Eventually, I make a dent. The new clothes start taking up space on the hangers, arranged mostly by color because that's the easiest system I can fake. A few pairs of shoes line up under the hanging clothes. The necklace's silver glint catches in the mirror as I move.

I pause, meeting my reflection again.

I don't look completely like Peter anymore.

I look like me.

Or… maybe like the version of me that's been waiting to be let out. Confident. Comfortable. Just a little bit worn in.

"Not bad," I mutter, nodding at myself. "Still not folding the socks, though."

The lazy bastard in me smiles, having clutched a small victory.

I collapse backward onto the bed, arms outstretched like I've just completed an Olympic triathlon. The fresh scent of fabric softener clings to the bedsheet, mixing with the faint metallic scent of the necklace still pressed against my chest.

It's quiet up here. Just the faint creak of the house settling and the occasional car rolling past outside. I let the moment sit—just me, the calm, and a small mountain of receipts I probably don't want to look at.

The ceiling doesn't look any different from the one in my old room, but it feels different. Like this room has potential. Like it could be mine, not just Peter's. I'm slowly starting to carve out the difference.

I shift, hand brushing over the necklace again, thumb tracing the edge of the wolf's snout. There's something solid in it. A reminder of the person I still am beneath all this, wrapped in another person's skin.

If I get a couple movie posters, a new paint job, and some new books, this will feel a lot more like home.

Most importantly, I need to be able to write. Get my thoughts out before they start turning to static. The laptop'll do just fine for that. It's old, a little sluggish, but it boots up and types, and that's all I really need. I've got things I want to say—some to myself, maybe some for someone else down the line.

Today was good.

Not perfect. Not painless. But good. The kind of good you feel in your chest, like a knot that finally let go. I'm not fully comfortable yet—not in this house, not in this skin—but it doesn't feel like I'm trespassing anymore.

That's a good start.

The weekend goes by quicker than I would have liked, but it was productive. I woke up, went for a morning run to the waterfront and back. It's still just as terrible as I remembered it being the other morning, but unlike the casual walk back with MJ, I force myself to run back both days. After the shower, I studied my ass off.

It's genuinely amazing how everything is sticking now. I know Peter was smart, and since I have his brain now, the neurons are firing faster. I don't have his intellect, but I feel like there's a chance now that one day I could have it.

It's actually fun, I hate to admit it. I'm scribbling down notes, recalling my Auto Body class from high school, minor things like that and finding ways to apply it to what I'm learning. Hell, I bet Ben and May think I'm bouncing right back to where Peter was before the coma.

I help cut the grass, assist May in cooking dinner, and even work with Ben to fix a leak in the basement. The energy I have is astonishing. I don't know how to describe it other than I want to move. I have a drive now…

Like something under my skin's caught fire and decided it's not going out anytime soon.

I'm not bouncing off the walls or anything. It's not hyper, not manic. It's just this low, persistent hum—like a car engine idling in my chest, waiting for green lights. I used to wake up dreading the idea of doing anything, but now I'm pulling open textbooks before I even brush my teeth.

On Sunday night, I actually look forward to school.

Let me say that again for the people in the back: I'm looking forward to school.

I know that's what Peter was about. Always pushing himself, always hungry to learn. And now I get it. I'm not him, but I've got the scaffolding in my head that lets me climb higher than I used to. Every equation I solve, every scientific term I recall, it's like I'm rewiring my own expectations in real time.

And the crazy part? It's not pressure. It's possibility.

The world feels wider now. Like the limitations I lived with before weren't real—they were just familiar.

I even enjoy helping out around the house. Cutting the grass, fixing a leak with Ben, dicing vegetables while May walks me through an old family recipe like I've done it a dozen times. The scent of garlic, the hum of a lawnmower, the cold copper smell of damp basement air—it all hits differently now.

Beyond that, though… I am noticing one thing that's lacking that I wish I had more of: the powers.

I know how ridiculous that sounds. I'm living in a dream scenario. I've got Peter's life, his family, his brain, his shot. And yeah, it's amazing. But the part that made him more than just some smart kid with a good heart—that part's been quiet.

Too quiet.

I shouldn't be upset that I'm not there yet. It's not like I've been bitten, blacked out, and woke up crawling on the ceiling. I know the timeline. I've got a little longer to go before the changes really kick in.

But I want to know what the rest of it feels like.

The Spider Sense only flared up once—but since then? Nothing. No sixth sense whispering in the back of my skull, no danger tingling on the edge of awareness. I keep waiting for it to show up again like a rerun, but all I get is silence.

Still… I can feel something brewing. It's subtle, but it's there.

My reflexes are sharper. I've started catching things before I realize I'm reaching for them. I move quicker. Turn corners faster. It's not much—but it's something.

And maybe that's what makes it harder. The taste of it. The hint.

It's like the universe is dangling the powers just out of reach, waiting to see what I'll do next.

I'm not going to chase after it if I don't have to, but it doesn't mean that I don't want it. I want to know.

So, maybe that's why when I noticed my hands felt grittier than normal as I was sitting at the desk Sunday night, I stopped what I was doing. They didn't feel dirty, but they didn't feel smooth like they normally did.

It was like I had calluses on my hand, but it was barely there, like fresh scratches made from sandpaper.

I rub my thumb across my palm, then over the pads of my fingers. There's a texture there that wasn't there before—like microscopic grit under the skin. Not rough, exactly. Not painful. Just... different. New.

Like something's trying to grow out of me without breaking the surface.

I lean in closer, holding my hand under the desk lamp. My skin looks the same, mostly. No bulging veins, no webbing, no sci-fi nonsense pulsing under the surface. But it feels different. My fingertips feel like they've been... sharpened. Not literally, but there's a kind of edge to them now. A quiet resistance when I drag them across the woodgrain of the desk, like I could grip it a little too hard if I really wanted to.

I press two fingers down on the desk and try to lift without grabbing—just friction and intention.

The sensation of the wood against my fingers as I lift almost feels like a piece of paper sticking to my hand when I'm sweaty. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be feeling, but the grit in my skin feels like something is happening.

The wood creaks, just a little, but it's enough to startle me. Whatever that sensation was disappears instantly and my hand yanks back like I just touched a hot stove. I stare at it for a moment, and realize that part of the panelling had stuck to my fingers. Once I remove them, I flex my hand. The sensation fades just a bit. Still there, but buried again, like it's shy.

It's like… static. Or a radio signal I'm not quite tuned to yet. Still faint, still distant, but unmistakably there.

I press my palm against my thigh just to feel something familiar. That soft friction's back again—not enough to stick, but enough that I can tell it wasn't just in my head.

I look at the desk. There's a faint line where my fingers lifted the paneling, splintered ever so slightly. Barely noticeable unless you're staring straight at it.

Which I am.

I lean back in my chair and exhale through my nose, the breath slow and uneven. My heart's beating harder than it probably needs to, and I'm trying to figure out if that's excitement or anxiety. Both, probably.

This is happening.

I stand up, glancing at the ceiling like it's suddenly turned into Everest. There's a pause—a beat where I'm pretty sure my better judgment is trying to drag me back into the chair. But the rest of me? The rest of me is buzzing.

If it works, I'm gonna have to physically stop myself from screaming out loud in excitement.

If it doesn't… well, I'm probably hitting the floor with a very loud thud and screaming for a much dumber reason.

Either way, I'm making some noise, dammit.

"Okay... let's do this."

I bend my knees and jump, pressing both hands flat against the ceiling above me.

And to my shock—no, not even shock—something deeper than that. Astonishment. Awe. Something—I stick.

I'm hanging. From. My. Ceiling.

My legs swing under me, and there's a good three feet between my feet and the floor. I stare down at them like they belong to someone else.

I tighten my core and swing up, slow and clumsy, but it works. I bring my feet up to the ceiling and press them down.

They stick too.

I clap a hand over my mouth just in time to muffle the laugh before it turns into something loud and uncontrollable. It bursts out anyway, sharp and breathless behind my fingers, like I can't even believe myself.

I'm on the ceiling. I'm on my fucking ceiling.

And it's not a fluke. I twist just slightly, testing how much weight I can shift without falling. My fingers grip tighter instinctively. It's like having extra muscles I didn't know existed—ones that are somehow hardwired to know what they're doing even if I don't.

The ceiling creaks above me, wood groaning like it's trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing up here. Same, buddy.

I glance down. It's a six-foot drop—nothing major, but it's enough to make my stomach flip if I think about losing grip.

Then again… I don't feel like I will.

That's the wild part. The security of it. My body knows how to do this. Like it's been waiting for the right moment to show me the manual.

I let go with one hand, just to see if I can. I hang there for a second, one hand and both feet keeping me steady. My heart leaps into my throat. My brain's screaming what are you doing, but the rest of me is too high on adrenaline to care.

I slap the hand back down before gravity changes its mind.

Another laugh bubbles up—quieter this time, but just as giddy. This is nuts. Completely, gloriously nuts. I'm upside down, and it doesn't even feel like it. No dizziness, no blood rushing to my head, no weird pressure behind my eyes. Just a sense of... balance. Like my body knows which way is up, even if gravity disagrees.

Guess that's the equilibrium part of the powers kicking in.

I grin.

"Okay," I mutter under my breath. "Let's see how far this goes."

Carefully—like I'm testing ice—I shift my weight forward. My hands release, fingers spreading wide in case I need to catch myself, but I stay upright. Or… ceiling-right?

Either way, I'm standing on the ceiling now.

My giggle turns into something more like a laugh—still hushed, but no less wild. This isn't just sticking anymore. I'm moving.

I take one cautious step. Then another.

My feet cling like it's nothing. Like they were made for this.

I walk across the ceiling like it's the floor, arms out slightly for balance even though I don't need it. The room's flipped upside down around me—the bed, the dresser, the desk lamp that suddenly looks a lot dustier from this angle—and I can't stop smiling.

I'm walking on the ceiling.

I'm walking on the freaking ceiling.

And it's officially the coolest thing I've ever done in my life.

I stop halfway across the ceiling and blink.

Wait.

How the hell do I get down?

I turn around slowly—still sticking like a pro, thank you very much—and glance at the floor like it's a twelve-foot drop instead of, you know, six feet. It suddenly looks way farther than it did five minutes ago. Like the kind of fall that ends in a very loud thud, a bruised tailbone, and a May Parker panic attack.

I crouch a little, testing the angle, like maybe if I just… peel off gently, it'll be fine. Except now my feet really don't want to let go. They're locked in, like my body's saying, "Oh, we live here now."

"Okay. Cool. Sticking very well. That's good," I mutter, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel. "Now maybe… let's try unsticking just a little bit, huh?"

I bend one knee and try to lift my foot. Nothing.

Shift a little more weight.

Still nothing.

"Oh come on—" I grunt, giving a solid yank that finally breaks the suction with a soft pop. My shoe peels off the ceiling like Velcro, and I wobble, one foot still clinging while the rest of me starts to tilt.

"Bad idea! Bad idea!"

I throw my hands up and catch the ceiling again, heart pounding. Okay. Definitely not graceful. But hey—progress.

I hang there for a second, legs dangling like some weird ceiling bat, and think it through. Okay. Okay. I've seen this before. Into the Spider-Verse. Which, I admit, doesn't make me an expert. But still.

In the movie, Miles kept sticking because he was panicking. He had to relax to stop.

So maybe… maybe that's it. Maybe the key to un-sticking is just not trying so hard.

"Alright," I mutter under my breath, shifting my grip slightly.

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, letting my arms loosen just a little, letting the tension bleed out of my fingers.

And like magic—actual magic this time, not metaphorical self-help stuff—my hands slip free. Just enough.

I drop with a surprised yelp, hit the bed with a bounce and sprawl out on my back, laughing like an idiot as the ceiling returns to its rightful place above me.

"Relax to unstick," I say, grinning at the ceiling like we just made a deal. "Noted."

But man, I gotta work on the landing.

Either way… that was awesome.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:12:23+0000

I wake up before my alarm.

It's not a brag—more like a problem. My body's done sleeping, but my brain is throwing a full-on protest, flinging thoughts around like bricks through windows for the next ten minutes while I stare at the ceiling and think about last night.

Whatever I might've imagined wall-crawling would feel like—it didn't even come close. There's no blueprint in the human brain for that. My muscles still remember it. I… I want to feel it again.

I slide out of bed and stretch, just a little. It's a habit I'm still working on—trying to remember that I'm not invincible and that if I don't want to tear something important, I should probably act like I've got bones.

The floor is cold, but only for a second. I barely notice it compared to the itch in my brain as I glance toward the wall.

I step up beside it and press my palm flat against the paint. The grit against my skin comes back instantly, but it's changed now—like there's a pull. Like the wall isn't just a surface, it's an invitation.

So I answer it.

My hand sticks. Then the other. My foot locks next, and my knee bends in this awkward, not-okay angle that should've hurt—but doesn't. Gravity tilts, the room skews sideways, and then I'm crawling up like it's nothing. Like I've always known how.

Once I'm on the ceiling, I roll onto my back, arms folded behind my head, staring down at my bed with a smile.

The weirdest part? It doesn't feel impossible. Doesn't feel like I'm breaking the laws of nature or cheating gravity. It just feels… right.

No. It feels good.

Like this is what I was made to do.

The pressure's different here—not like I'm lying down, more like I'm being held. Like the ceiling's got me. Like I couldn't fall even if I wanted to. The skin on my back tingles faintly where it meets the plaster, every nerve alive and checking in. There's this warm, magnetic sensation running through my limbs. My fingertips buzz like they've got tiny engines under the skin.

I close my eyes.

And for a moment, I let myself feel it all—the silence of the room, the faint creak of the house settling, the slow rise and fall of my chest. The way the ceiling accepts me, no questions asked.

I don't want to come down.

Not because it's cool.

Because right now—I feel complete.

I've never felt more like myself.

The ceiling holds me like a hammock, like a giant palm cradling me above the world. I don't feel weightless—but I don't feel heavy, either. I just feel held.

The drywall under my shirt is faintly warm from the rising heat of the house. There's a texture to it—fine grit and imperfections I never noticed from the floor. I can feel every one of them now, mapped out along my spine like braille.

I stare down at the room below, watching the way the soft morning light spills across the bed. The shadows look different from up here—longer, deeper, stretched like the edges of a dream I haven't quite woken up from.

I don't know how long I stay like that—could be thirty seconds, could be ten minutes. Time's a little sideways in this position.

But eventually, I feel the world creeping back in. The weight of the day pressing in from the edges.

I sigh.

Then, I hop back to the floor with a confidence I didn't know I had, landing softly with barely a sound. I could have gone back to sleep on the ceiling, but truth be told, I'd rather not have May or Ben walk in and see that.

I get into one of the tank tops and shorts Harry bought for me and go for my morning run with the wolf necklace swinging comfortably against my chest. I'm still half asleep, but I'm moving. Bettering myself demands sacrifice, and today, sleep's the lamb.

I hit the street, and the cool autumn air brushes against my face like a pillow I don't want to leave. I sleep great when it's cold, so it's not exactly helping me wake up. So, I shake my head, and start jogging. My feet still haven't found their rhythm yet, but it's starting to feel less awkward. Though, it still fucking sucks.

Every step is a reminder that I'm not built for this yet. The first few blocks feel like my legs forgot what they were supposed to do, like they're running on rusty gears that haven't been oiled in years. The burn creeps up from my calves to my thighs, and my shoulders start burning like I'm carrying a backpack full of bricks.

I'm doing this wrong. I shouldn't feel like this, right?

It's only been a few days. It's gotta be the quitter in me crying out. I need to keep going. Even the part of me that hates running begrudgingly knows it's the only way forward.

So, I grit my teeth, ignore the protest from every muscle screaming at me to quit, and push through.

Queens flies by. The chipped stop sign. The guy walking his dog with too many leashes wrapped around his legs. The old lady watering her plants like she's been doing it since Eisenhower was in office.

None of it matters right now.

I'm pretty sure my grandpa would be thrilled to know I'm finally exercising. He was one of the ones always pushing me to take care of myself.

In a weird way, I think I'm doing this for him.

Even if he doesn't know it, he's with me every step of the way.

Just as I start to drift into autopilot, the sound of pounding footsteps catches my attention—a quick, familiar rhythm beside me.

"Well, at least you look the part today!" a voice teases—light and breezy, like the morning.

I turn to see MJ racing to catch up with me, hair whipping around her face, grin stretched wide like she doesn't have a care in the world.

"Oh. Hey!" I wheeze.

Talking while running. Yeah, that's a new level of torture.

She drops into pace beside me effortlessly, and dammit—she's not even breathing hard.

"Seriously? You're actually doing this? I didn't think you'd stick with it."

I grimace. My lungs feel like they've been through a cheese grater.

"Yeah? Well, it still sucks."

MJ snorts.

"You'll learn to love it, trust me. Though… maybe slow down. It's not meant to be a sprint the entire time."

"I've only been jogging," I mutter, slowing beside a lamppost. "I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing."

"Oh… that's not good," she laughs—not mocking, just kind of… pitying.
And that's somehow worse.

MJ's looking at me like she's genuinely concerned I might crumple into the sidewalk and start leaking spirit energy. It only makes me want to keep moving more. Because if I stop now, I'm honestly tempted to just sit down next to this pole and let it be my final resting place.

...Which is probably in poor taste, considering where I was a week ago.

Yeah. I know.

"Well," she grins, jogging backward a few paces so she can look at me while I die, "if anyone can make running look this miserable and still keep going—it's you."

I want to argue, but my lungs are doing their best impression of a collapsed accordion.
Instead, I just give her a tired smile.

"Thanks… I think."

"So, how are you feeling?" MJ asks.

I hack out a breath.

"Like I'm about to cough out my lung, thanks for asking!"

She laughs, bright and easy.

"No, silly. I meant in general."

"Oh!" I chuckle, dragging a breath and channeling my inner Chandler Bing. I'm pretty sure I look like he did in that one episode of Friends right now. "Uh, prett—pant—pretty good. You?"

"Now that you're here, I've got my entertainment for the morning, so I think I'm good."

I roll my eyes, smirking.

"Haha."

As we head back toward Forest Hills, the city waking up around us like it's shrugging off sleep, I decide to ask the question that's been hovering since I last saw her.

"So… you living with Anna?" I ask, trying to keep it casual, but honestly just curious.

MJ nods, her steps falling into rhythm beside mine.

"Yeah. For the next few months, at least. My parents are in the middle of a nasty divorce, and I didn't want to be a part of all that. Anna's letting me crash there."

"Ouch," I say, wincing like she just told me she stepped on a LEGO barefoot. "Sorry."

She shrugs, but there's a flicker of something behind her eyes—like maybe she hasn't had a chance to talk about it out loud yet.

Or maybe she's just really good at pretending it doesn't bother her.

"Don't be," she says. "Honestly, Anna's place is kind of a sanctuary compared to the screaming matches I was waking up to back home. She bakes when she's stressed, too, which is, like… the best coping mechanism ever. The woman made blueberry muffins last night because she saw a political ad she didn't like."

I let out a weak laugh.

"That's almost too wholesome to be real."

"Oh, it's real," MJ says with a grin.

"Still, though. I'm sorry about your parents. I know how divorces can be." I say quietly. "I saw what it did to my cousin's kids after she and her husband split. It's rough."

"What's that line people say nowadays?" she scrunches her nose, thinking for a second. "It is what it is? Not much I can do about it."

Oh if my mother had heard that, she would have visibly recoiled over that one. She hated that phrase.

She looks back at me, curiosity flickering.

"But what about you? What's your deal?" she asks. "How come you live with your aunt and uncle?"

I chuckle, pointing to my head like it's some kind of mystery box.

"Uh, well… kinda foggy there, you know?"

She frowns.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, you're good. My parents went on a business trip to South America when I was young. Their plane crashed. I've been staying with Ben and May ever since." I pause, eyes distant for a second. "I wouldn't change a thing though. Just wish I could remember more about them, you know?"

MJ nods slowly, like she gets the weight behind that. And maybe she does. Truth is, I know what it's like—wanting to know a parent more than you ever got to. My father wasn't around when I was a kid. I mean, he was there for the conception, probably, but after that? Ghost. By the time I met him, I was ten, and I didn't even know he was my dad until a few months later—right before he disappeared again.

My family was always my grandpa, my mom, and my little brother. Now? It's Ben and May. And despite the fact I miss them more than anyone could ever know—honestly, I think I won the lottery with them.

We turn a corner, gravel crunching under our shoes as the sidewalk shifts from uneven concrete to that smoother slab near the nicer houses. The air smells like cut grass and leftover rain. Somewhere a car door slams, and wind chimes rattle half a block away.

"You close with your parents?" I ask, quietly. Not nosy—just wondering if she got a better hand than I did.

MJ breathes out slowly, her ponytail bouncing once as she gives a small shake of her head.

"My mom tries," she says after a beat. "She really does. She calls, checks in, sends me stuff. But my dad..." Her mouth tightens for half a second. "It's like he doesn't even want to be there. I mean, maybe it's because things with him and Mom got so rocky, and he's just tired of it all—but it never really felt like he cared that much."

Her voice is steady, but there's something hollow around the edges. Like she's said all this before, but it still stings every time.

"He never told me goodbye when I left to come to Anna's, either."

I glance over at her, lifting a brow.

"What? He didn't say anything?"

She snorts, but there's no humor in it.

"Not a word."

The breeze picks up then, just enough to tug at the edges of her tank top and send the faint scent of lilacs and car exhaust drifting past us. I watch her for a second—how she keeps her face calm, even though I can see the tension in her jaw.

"I'm sorry," I say, because that's all I can really say. And yeah, I know that phrase gets overused and tossed around like a band-aid, but I mean it.

She shrugs, like it's fine, even though we both know it's not.

"It's whatever. I'm used to it."

But nobody should have to get used to that.

We walk in silence from there. The air's already warming, the sun climbing higher now, turning the rooftops gold and pulling long shadows from the parked cars along the curb. A robin darts across the sidewalk in front of us, wings flicking so fast they're just a blur, before it vanishes into a hedge.

Up ahead, the houses start to look familiar.

I can see the peak of the Watson place just above the trimmed hedges—its shutters freshly painted, flower boxes clinging to the windows like they're auditioning for a Home & Garden cover. Right next door, our place looks almost rustic in comparison.

I know that I'm only fourteen now, but the moment I can get some money, I'm going to fix the house up. I owe Ben and May that much.

"Are you going to school today?" MJ asks, cutting through the quiet.

I glance at her, nodding with a little shrug.

"I've got the all-clear, so… might as well get it over with."

She grins faintly.

"Nothing says 'welcome back to life' like a pop quiz."

"Oh, if there's a quiz, I'm faking another coma," I mutter, and she actually laughs at that—just a short, surprised little bark that makes me feel like I've won something.

"What about you?" I ask, wiping a line of sweat from my brow with the edge of my shirt.

"I start at Midtown today."

I blink.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yep." Her smile tightens a little like she's still trying to decide how she feels about it. "Anna figured it'd be good to get back into a routine. You know. New environment, clean slate, all that fun stuff."

We slow our steps a little as our houses come into full view, the last stretch of sidewalk framed by creaking trees and dappled sunlight.

"Well," I say, trying not to sound weirdly excited even though, internally, I absolutely am, "guess I'll see you there."

"You better." She jabs a finger in my direction. "I didn't move to Queens just to get ghosted by the one person I know."

"Oh no," I say, holding up both hands like I've just been accused of a crime. "You are definitely stuck with me now. That's the deal."

"Deal, huh?" Her smirk returns, sharper this time.

"Full disclosure, if we're going to be friends I want to warn you. You're going to hate me just a little." I smile.

"That so?"

"It's kind of a rule I have with my friends. We're not really friends if you don't hate me just a tiny bit."

"That's an interesting rule."

"But it's served me well, or so I'm told." I chuckle.

"Well, then. I'll see you here after a bit."

As I watch her step onto Anna's porch, I find myself grinning. By the time I realize it, my face turns red. I probably look like an idiot right now, and god help me if May is watching. The ache in my legs is still there, and my lungs feel like they've been run through a paper shredder, but frankly, it doesn't bother me.

I turn toward the Parker house and jog the last few steps. The porch creaks under my weight as I step up onto it, and I see the door's already cracked open an inch.

Did I not get it shut all the way before I left? Grandpa would have said something in this situation. Hopefully it was just Ben getting the morning paper.

Crossing the threshold, cool air hits me first.

Ben must've clicked the AC on when he got up. The smell of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of toast and whatever detergent May uses that somehow always smells like sun-warmed linen and safety.

Ben's at the table, still in his worn robe and flannel pajama pants, a steaming mug in hand and the morning paper folded into fourths on the table in front of him.

"You're back early," he says without looking up.

I shrug, kicking off my shoes and letting the door thud shut behind me.

"Didn't want to collapse on someone's lawn and get reported."

Ben hums.

I pass through the living room, grabbing the towel May left draped over the banister—she always leaves one for me when I run. I don't know how she's already figured out my schedule, but I'm grateful for the assistance. I swipe at the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.

"How long have you been up?"

"Woke up about an hour early. Couldn't sleep."

He finally looks up at that, his eyes sharp in that way they get when he's picking up on something I haven't said. But he doesn't press. Just nods, like that's all he needed to hear.

Bathroom. Quick shower. No time to linger unless I want to start the day looking like a gremlin that crawled out of a drainage pipe. The water's hot—thank God—and it works out the worst of the soreness, though my calves still feel like overcooked noodles.

By the time I'm out and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh shirt, May's downstairs, hair up in a messy bun, frying something that smells aggressively like turkey bacon. She turns when she hears my footsteps

"You look alive," she says, voice light but eyes warm. "That's an improvement."

"We'll see how alive I am in a few hours," I snicker as I sit at the table and swipe a piece off the paper towel-lined plate she sets down.

"So… today's the big day," she says, nudging a mug of coffee toward me.

"Mm-hmm." I sip. It's too hot. I don't care.

Ben chuckles from behind the paper.

"Just make sure you take it easy, today. Don't get overwhelmed."

Easy enough for him to say. He isn't the one going back to school for the first time since he was eighteen.

"I'll try."

In a few minutes, I'll be walking into Midtown for the first time since everything changed. I'll barely know anyone's names and I won't know my teachers. Hell, the fact I gotta go to the office before class starts to get my locker and schedule is going to be awful enough as it is.

I finish the last bite of bacon, still chewing as I lean back in the chair and let the heat of the coffee cup warm my hands. It's not the best brew in the world—I'm pretty sure May's never measured a scoop in her life—but it's hot, it's strong, and right now, that's all I need.

Across from me, Ben rustles the paper as he flips to the next section. Probably the obits. The one thing I've found he does every day is check the obituaries. He says it's because he'd rather know if somebody he knew was gone. I get that, but I never looked because I was terrified to see someone I was close with there.

May moves around the kitchen like she's gliding, not rushing anything, even though the stove's still hissing and the coffee's cooling by the second. But she's watching me now—really watching—like she's just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

And then it happens.

She turns off the stove, leans against the counter with her arms crossed, and lifts one eyebrow like she's the protagonist in a family sitcom that's been waiting three seasons for this payoff.

"So… was that Anna's niece I saw heading up to the porch next door?"

I freeze mid-sip. The mug nearly slips from my hand.

"Maybe?" I try, like there's some universe where that answer won't unlock a full nuclear launch.

May's smile spreads slowly, like butter on warm toast.

"I thought so."

Ben's still reading his paper, but I can feel the shift in the air, like he's tensing up for cover fire.

"She's the one you bumped into on that run the other day, right?" May asks, far too casual.

"She bumped into me," I mutter.

"Mmhmm." Her smirk is a blade. "Funny how you never mentioned it."

"Wait… I never told you I bumped into someone." I turn towards Ben, who mysteriously is looking away in a totally inconspicuous way. "You told her?"

Ben doesn't even lower the paper.

"All I said was that you met somebody."

"Traitor," I mutter.

"I'm sitting right here," he says, unbothered. "And I stand by it."

May's practically glowing now.

"I just think it's nice," she says, pouring herself coffee like she isn't detonating my morning. "You've been through a lot, Peter. And MJ's a sweet girl. Bright, thoughtful… pretty."

"Okay," I say quickly, holding up both hands like I'm defusing a bomb. "Let's not plan the wedding just yet."

May sips serenely from her mug.

"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to let people in."

"She lives next door," I reply. "I think that already qualifies as let in."

Ben finally lowers the paper, just enough for his eyes to peek over the top.

"Just be glad she didn't walk you back holding hands, or you'd already have a photo on the fridge."

May smiles into her cup like that's not the worst idea she's heard this week.

I sit back, mug in hand, and groan into the steam. Not only am I uncomfortable because of the age difference between us, but the fact I'm getting Vietnam flashbacks to my sorta-not ex. That's a lot to explain, and I'd rather not go into that. Just know that everything went downhill when she said "Hi Mom" in the background of a phone call when I was on break at work one day.

Mom made it her personal mission to refer to her as 'future daughter-in-law.' This is giving me serious whiplash.

"I'm gonna go grab my bag," I say, standing from the table. I shouldn't be this nervous or embarrassed. Damn teenage hormones.

"Don't forget your lunch," May calls.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, already halfway up the stairs.

God help me.

By no means was high school the worst part of my life. But standing in front of the double doors of Midtown High, it might as well be the gates of Mordor. There's no Eye of Sauron peering down from a flaming tower, but it still feels like I'm being watched.

I'm frozen on the sidewalk, bag dragging at my shoulder like it's full of bricks, just staring up at those doors like they're going to open and swallow me whole. I shouldn't even be this nervous.

Nerves don't care about logic, though. The idea of walking into a building full of people who all know me, while I don't know a single one of them, is intimidating as hell. My stomach's practically doing laundry on spin cycle.

Sure, I've gone through it before, but that was my school. That was my name, my face, and my semi-functional friend group. Now, I'm walking around in someone else's skin.

Back then, I was a loner, but at least I knew who I was avoiding. Even if I didn't like being around people, they knew me. I wasn't nearly as much of a fly on the wall as I like to believe. So, the idea that these kids will smile at me in the hallways, call me by name, and maybe even expect me to sit next to them like we're best friends… it's more than a little horrifying.

I suck in a breath, and step forward anyway. The doors groan open, and walk into the chaos.

The hallways are packed. Sneakers squeak, lockers slam, and some overconfident kid's blasting music from his phone like it's a party. It smells like cafeteria grease, cheap perfume, and something I'm pretty sure is rotting gym socks. A girl with coffee nearly baptizes me in caramel drizzle and doesn't even look back when I mumble a reflexive "Sorry."

The sheer volume of it all makes me flinch—shouting, laughter, slamming doors, buzzing conversations. A kid rushes by with a skateboard tucked under one arm, earbuds in, hoodie up, like he's trying to outrun the concept of attendance. A girl's yelling about mascara. Someone's phone goes off in a bass drop.

Social anxiety's clawing at my ribs. I've never felt more like an alien in a place I'm supposed to be familiar with.

Technically, I'm not new. But it might as well be my first day all over again. I don't know the layout. I don't know my teachers. I don't even know where I'm supposed to be right now. For all I know, I'm going to stumble into AP Chemistry and accidentally burn the school down trying to light a Bunsen burner.

I don't recognize a single face.

From what I've been able to piece together since the hospital, the only people I really "know" are Harry, Lonnie, and Flash... kinda. And now, MJ. Sort of. I think? That one's complicated.

I edge along the wall like I'm in a stealth mission, head down, trying not to make eye contact. Which probably makes me look even sketchier. My goal's simple: main office.

I pass a group of guys yelling about last night's game—or a fight, I can't tell. One of them glances my way and does a double take. I keep walking like I didn't see it. But he definitely recognized me.

Finally, I spot a sign that says ADMINISTRATION and follow it through a set of quieter double doors. It's like stepping into a completely different building. Carpeted floors. Fluorescent lights. Silence, blessed silence.

The main office smells like paper, printer toner, and vanilla—thanks to a scented plug-in humming by the front desk. Talk about priorities.

The secretary looks up, her hair twisted in a tight bun, glasses low on her nose. She smiles like it's automatic.

"Morning, Peter," she says, like she's said it a hundred times before. "Glad to see you back."

I blink, thrown for a second. But I nod and try to smile like someone who isn't quietly preparing to bolt through the nearest window.

The nameplate on her desk says Ms. Diaz.

She pushes a manila folder toward me with practiced ease.

"Schedule, locker assignment, homeroom—everything you need. Your teachers have notes about your... situation. Just take it slow. And if you need anything, we're here, okay?"

I nod and glance at the folder. First period: Biology. Room 214. Top floor, apparently. There's a stapled map on the back. It might as well be a treasure hunt.

I'm halfway to the door when she calls out again—without looking up.

"Oh—and welcome back, hon."

Yeah.

Welcome back.

"Thank you." I manage on my way out.

Biology.

God help me.

Dropping into the plastic chair by the window, I crack open the folder May helped me organize last night. AP Biology. The syllabus for the class is in the front, four sheets of pages printed front and back. Midtown doesn't screw around. I was lucky to get to one or two sheets maximum from my previous classes.

I skim the first line.

This is not your standard biology class.

Yeah, no shit…

By the time I hit "signal transduction pathways" and "Hardy-Weinberg equilibrium," I'm wondering if someone put this in here as a joke. I used to be in college-prep courses. Standard stuff. Nothing special. And even then, toward the end, I'd dropped down to general classes because my grades had started slipping. Everyone called it out for what it was, but I didn't care. I didn't have the drive, the focus… I simply didn't care.

But this? This is above my pay grade, entirely.

Photosynthesis light curves? Population modeling? Gel electrophoresis? I barely remember how to spell mitochondria, how am I supposed to know how to say electrophoresis? I swallow hard and set the paper down on my desk, my face scrunching in disgust. I don't belong here…

At least—not the new Peter.

I'm not going to flunk this, though. I've got work to do, gaps to fill. I'll probably need to teach myself entire chapters at home. It's going to suck, but I'm going to do it. I wasted my life. I'm not afraid to admit it. It shouldn't have taken me dying and getting a second chance to try and fix it, but it's too late for regrets. If I'm going to make the most of this, I need to step up my game.

Midtown is full of geniuses, and if there is one thing I hate more than anything, it's people making me feel like an idiot. If I have to stay up late at night doing extra work, so be it.

Shifting in my seat, I notice that the classroom's still filling up. Someone behind me is complaining about their SAT tutor. A pencil snaps. I watch Harry slide into the seat beside me with a forced smile, and I give him a nod back.

Then, the bell rings.

Mr. Larson is already at the front of the room, scribbling a diagram on the whiteboard. He doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask us how our weekends were. Just jumps straight into a chalk-dry monologue like he's been rehearsing it in the mirror.

"…in the cell cycle, mitosis is essential for growth and repair. But what happens when the cell forgets how to stop dividing?"

I blink. We're talking about cancer. Cool. Totally a relaxing way to start my day.

One thing I learn about Mr. Larson is that Harry was right. He really wasn't kidding about him being a dick.

He's got a stick so far up his ass I'm surprised it isn't poking out of his mouth.

Beyond the initial "Welcome back" when I walked in, Larson's left me alone. Which, great… I love it.

What I don't love is the way he keeps treating Harry like a crash test dummy. Harry's not dumb, but holy hell—pick someone else to answer a question for once.

At one point, he turns around, marker in hand, scanning the class like he's searching for a victim. His eyes land on Harry.

Of course they do.

"Mr. Osborn," Larson says, that familiar faux-friendly venom in his voice, "why don't you tell us what causes a tumor to become malignant?"

Harry freezes.

I can practically see the gears trying to turn in his head, but they're not catching. I don't blame him. Half the class is pretending to not exist right now.

Harry fumbles out a half-answer. Something about cells dividing too much. It's not wrong, but it's not what Larson wants.

The older man sighs, loud and theatrical, like Harry's just ruined his day.

I raise my hand.

Larson's brow lifts, surprised.

"Yes, Mr. Parker?"

"Loss of regulation in the cell cycle," I say. "Specifically, when tumor suppressor genes like p53 are mutated. That's what lets the cells divide uncontrollably and invade other tissue. That's what makes it malignant."

I say it without second-guessing myself. I know this. Grandma was sick for a long time. She had lung cancer—I remember sitting in the hospital at seven-eight years old when she was there for chemo and radiation treatments. After she passed away, I became interested in the subject and started learning about it. One of the few times I had initiative for something more than superheroes and video games during my adolescent years.

Larson blinks.

"…Correct," he says, almost grudgingly.

Harry lets out a tiny breath, and I glance over at him with a shrug.

"Thanks," Harry whispers, and I merely nod.

The rest of the class keeps moving, but I catch the look on Larson's face. The way he lingers on me for just a second too long. Like maybe—for now—he's reconsidering what box to put me in.

And that's fine.

I'm not going anywhere, regardless of what anyone expects.

The rest of the day starts to go by quickly, surprisingly. Harry and I have most of our classes together, and that includes Geometry. Let me tell you, Harry might have not been on his A-game with Larson, but in Geometry the guy is the equivalent of a demigod. Seriously, it's like that's all he's ever known. Meanwhile, I'm staring at Ms. Grant's notes on the board like they're ancient hieroglyphs.

Math's always been my Achilles heel, which—let's be honest—isn't exactly uncommon. But still, I feel like I've been thrown overboard. Why couldn't I have been blessed with Peter's brains?

Right now, I feel like I got the short end of the web.

It's during PE that the day shifts to a better mood, though. Which is weird, seeing as I hated PE back then, mostly because I had self-esteem issues and didn't like to sweat at school.

By the time I get changed into my gym clothes—gray Midtown shirt, black shorts, sneakers that still have showroom shine—I'm already regretting whatever sadist put Physical Education at the end of the day. My body's running on fumes, my brain's half-fried from Bio and Geometry, and now I get to exert what little bit of energy I have left with more exercise.

I let my head tip back and stare at the ceiling. Big metal rafters. Flickering lights that belong in a horror movie. Faint echo of a whistle somewhere in the distance. God, I hope this isn't one of those days where they make us run the mile. I'm not trying to become a chalk outline today.

"Hey, Peter."

I sit up a little too fast, almost flinching—because of course it's MJ. She's already dressed down for class, Midtown tee tied in a small knot at her hip, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail that somehow makes her look both effortless and like she could outpace me in a footrace without even trying.

She flashes a warm, casual smile as she steps up onto the bleacher beside me.

"How's it going?"

I exhale slowly.

"Feeling a bit overwhelmed, but I'm managing," I say, trying to sound chill and not like I just finished reliving every academic trauma I've ever had.

She nods sympathetically and glances toward the far side of the gym, where a few kids are already jogging half-hearted laps.

"What about you? Enjoying Midtown so far?"

She shrugs, settling onto the bench beside me with her elbows on her knees.

"It's not bad. At the end of the day, it's school. Nothing special. But I've already had two teachers mispronounce my name and one kid spill Gatorade on my sneakers, so, you know—pretty on-brand."

I grin.

"Well, lucky for you, you've got me here to lower the bar."

"Oh, absolutely," she says dryly. "You're ruining the curve just by existing."

Wow… she's a bit snarky. It reminds me of my old friends, and I think that's why I'm actually comfortable around her. Despite the fact we've only seen each other during physical activities, she makes it a bit better.

She nudges her knee against mine, and I glance down at the gym floor, smiling despite myself.

"Seriously, though," she adds, voice a little softer, "you hanging in there?"

I glance over at her—and yeah, she means it. She's not just making conversation.

"I'm trying," I say. "Homework's gonna suck, but… I'll figure it out."

"Better you than me," she jokes, then stands and stretches like a cat, eyes on the coach setting up cones across the floor. "C'mon. Let's go get tortured together."

I groan as I push up from the bench.

"Misery loves company, right?"

"Exactly," she says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder. "And if we have to run laps, I'm drafting off you."

"If I drop dead halfway through, avenge me," I mutter.

She laughs as we head down the bleachers together.

"No promises."

Then came lunch.

I don't know why I expected it to feel different. It's still a cafeteria with the smell of grease and bleach colliding, and a hundred teenagers trying to out-shout each other before fifth period.

Harry and I manage to snag a decent spot at the end of a long table, near the windows. I barely have time to unwrap the foil on my sandwich before I realize we're not alone.

"Hey, scooch over," comes a voice behind me.

I glance up.

Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Denim jacket. Eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass. She's got a confidence in her stride that I would die for. My self-esteem would never let me look so proud.

She drops her tray next to Harry with a subtle smile, and I swear to God he nearly short-circuits.

"Oh, hey," he says, and it's almost impressive how hard he's trying not to sound flustered.

This has to be Gwen Stacy. She doesn't even need to introduce herself. The way Harry sits up straighter and forgets how his hands work pretty much confirms it. They talk like they've done this a hundred times, but there's still this energy between them, like every sentence is being balanced on a wire.

Hell, I almost forget my food is in my hand. They're so adorably distracting that I almost want to gag.

Then the table creaks under a thud, like a small meteor just landed across from me. The guy's built like a fridge. Shaved head, thick neck, massive shoulders barely contained by a green and white Midtown lettermen jacket, with the big M stitched on the left breast.

"Yo, Osborn," he says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "You see the hit from last night? Rangers smoked 'em."

Harry grins.

"I was trying to do my homework, man."

"Lame." he says, but with a fondness that makes it feel like he's said it every day since middle school.

I'd have to guess this is Kong... Flash's best friend. I've only seen him in the Spectacular Spider-Man and the Ultimate comics, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Then, as if summoned by the sound of testosterone and cafeteria-grade starch, the chair next to Kong scrapes across the floor. And here he comes.

Flash Thompson.

I recognize him immediately from Peter's photos—same cocky smirk, same athletic build. He's wearing his own letterman jacket open, sleeves pushed up, and his face? It honestly does give off Alan Ritchson energy. He's even got that overconfident frat-boy grin to match.

"Hey Parker," he smiles at me. "I didn't even know you were back. I've missed seeing you around, dork."

"Thanks, Flash. I guess I missed you too," I say, giving him a smile that's about as fake as margarine.

He points a finger-gun at me like I just admitted a deep emotional truth.

"Of course you did. Everybody loves me."

"Please, Flash…" Gwen rolls her eyes. "Let's not pretend that you're Midtown's sweetheart."

Flash clutches his chest like she shot him.

"You wound me, Stacy."

"Not enough," she mutters.

I'm trying not to laugh.

"How are you feeling, Pete?" she asks, turning back to me with a softer look.

"Been better," I admit. "But I'm doing alright."

We fall into easy conversation after that.

Well, I say we, but I really mean they.

I mostly just sit there quietly and occasionally blink, watching them all banter, half-dazed by the fact that I'm actually in this group. How the hell did this happen? Everything I'd seen from Peter's computer made it seem like I was going to mostly be around Harry and potentially MJ.

Flash is posturing like an idiot, but it's more bark than bite. He and Kong trade one-liners about the gym teacher, and to my shock, Kong might be the most wholesome behemoth I've ever seen. He keeps offering me pieces of food from his tray and asking if I'm "getting enough protein," like I'm his smaller, more fragile cousin.

Harry leans over and mutters something under his breath to Gwen, and she laughs. I wouldn't have pictured them together before. But now? It works. It really does.

And selfishly, it's a relief. If something ever happens—if I ever put the mask on and step into the line of fire—I won't have to worry about her the way Peter once did. She's not the girl I'm supposed to save. She's just... Gwen. Sharp, funny, and probably smarter than all of us combined.

I'm just starting to think this might be the most bizarre thing I've lived through all day when Gwen turns to me, brows raised in amused interest.

"Peter," she calls my name. "Who was the new girl you were talking to in PE?"

My brain throws up static.

"…New girl?"

"Yeah. Red hair? Ponytail? Midtown tee tied at the hip?" she adds, nodding toward the gym wing like I didn't just mentally black out the entire class. "The one that had you in a smile the entire period?"

"Oh…" I say slowly, blinking. "That's MJ."

Gwen's eyes light up with something that gives me an uneasy reminder of May's own face on the topic. That same I'm-not-saying-it-but-I'm-absolutely-saying-it kind of look.

"You know her outside of school?" she asks, too casual to be innocent.

"Uh," I clear my throat. "She's staying next door."

Gwen raises an eyebrow like she just cracked a case.

"So she's your neighbor?"

"Technically," I reply, trying very hard not to sound like that makes it anything more than a geographical coincidence. "Her aunt is close friends with May. She's been crashing there for a bit."

"Interesting," she says slowly, dragging the word out like she's tasting it. "Very interesting."

I glance to Harry for backup, but he's no help—too busy trying to hide a grin behind his sandwich. Kong, meanwhile, is mouthing ooOooh around a bite of mashed potatoes like this is a soap opera. Flash just raises an eyebrow, amused, but says nothing—maybe the one thing he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut on.

"She seems cool," Gwen continues, swirling her juice box like it's a glass of wine. "Cute, too."

"I—I guess," I mumble, suddenly hyper-aware of literally every eyeball at the table. "We talked a little. That's all."

"You smiled the whole time," she sing-songs, just enough to make me want to slide under the table and never come out.

"I was trying not to throw up from Coach's suicide drills."

"Uh-huh." Gwen smirks, nudging Harry with her elbow. "Sounds like a crush to me."

"I don't have a crush," I say firmly, and maybe a little too quickly. "I barely know her."

Flash snorts.

"You kidding me? Red was in fourth period with me. She's out of Parker's league."

"Are you just scared that Peter might get a girlfriend before you do, Flash?" Gwen asks, and Flash's cheeks turn red.

"Uh, excuse me?! I can get any girl I want, thank youuuu!" He draws the word out like he needs the extra emphasis. "I just don't want the little guy to get hurt."

"Right…" Gwen deadpans.

Harry finally cracks and snorts into his sandwich, trying and failing to cover it up with a cough. Kong lets out a wheeze that sounds like a balloon giving up on life.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck.

"Can we please talk about anything else? Literally anything?"

Flash leans back in his seat, shrugging.

"Hey, I'm just looking out for you, Parker. That's what friends do."

The table pauses for a second.

Even I blink at that.

I watch him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But it doesn't come.

Instead, Kong jumps in, pointing his fork like it's part of the conversation. "He's been a little extra sentimental since Liz turned him down for Homecoming."

Flash's head snaps around.

"Dude."

"What?" Kong grins. "You have."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have. You bought cologne for her. Cologne, Flash..."

Gwen perks up.

"Wait, Liz turned you down?"

"Can we not turn this into a school-wide bulletin?" Flash grumbles, folding his arms. "I'm just saying… comas are serious, alright? And Pete's… Pete. He's one of us."

"When have you ever said that?" Harry asked. "Aren't you the one that makes him the butt of every joke you can?"

"Peter, come on… help me out here." Flash motions towards the rest of the group. "We were friends when we were kids, rememba?"

"Uh, sorry to disappoint… but I have amnesia, Flash. I don't remember much of anything."

"WHA?!" Flash's eyes widen like a cartoon character. "You're pulling my leg, right?"

"Nope," I say, popping the P. "Don't even remember my own locker combo. You could tell me we used to do gymnastics together and I'd just have to believe you."

Flash looks visibly distressed by that. Like I just told him he was the one in a coma.

"Dude," he says slowly, "you don't remember anything?"

"Bits and pieces," I admit. "Faces are mostly familiar. Names, too. But… memories? Not really. It's like someone hit a reset button up here." I tap the side of my head. "I thought you knew, everybody else does."

"Apparently, I didn't get the memo." Flash frowns and leans forward on his elbows, glancing between me and Harry. "That's messed up, man. Seriously. You—uh, you doing okay with that?"

That... wasn't sarcasm.

"Yeah," I say, nodding a little. "It's been weird, but… I'm figuring it out."

"Good," Flash says. Then, after a pause, he adds, "For what it's worth… you were kind of a nerd before."

Kong makes a choking sound, like he tried to laugh mid-chew and almost died.

"But you were our nerd," Flash adds, tossing a grape at Kong like it'll cancel out the accidental sincerity.

"Wow," Gwen says, mock-clutching her chest. "That might be the most emotionally honest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

"Don't get used to it," Flash grumbles, clearly already regretting letting the sentiment slip.

I lean back in my seat, glancing over at Harry. We lock eyes for a second, both of us quietly stunned by the social miracle happening in front of us.

Harry just shrugs, mouthing, I don't know either.

Kong breaks the silence by sliding his chicken strips across the table toward me.

"You need protein," he says seriously.

"Thanks…" I reply, taking them cautiously.

As I eat the strips, I realize that out of everybody I've seen today, there's only one person from Peter's computer that I haven't seen: Lonnie.

"Hey, where's Lonnie?"

Everyone looks surprised that I brought him up.

"He's out of town on vacation, visiting his aunt in Tennessee." Kong explains. "He should be back next week."

I nod, not wanting to push any further. I was actually hoping to get to meet him, because he's the only one out of the entire group here that I can't imagine interacting with Peter. Though, I can wait a week. It'll give me a chance to get used to the others.

I finish off the strips Kong gifted me, watching the rest of them talk. I lean back a little and just... take it in.

How the hell did this become Peter's lunch group?

Like seriously. Gwen Stacy, who could easily be sitting with the AP crowd or the student council. Flash Thompson, literal high school jock archetype. Kong, who looks like he should be lifting trucks for fun. And Harry—rich kid royalty, somehow managing to act like the most normal one out of all of them.

This should not work. On paper, it's a mess. A half-step away from a sitcom cast that got assembled by throwing darts at a yearbook.

Hell, to top it off you got an amnesiac Peter Parker among them.

How did this happen?

I don't bother to question it right now—I'm just thankful that I get to finish my lunch in peace.

As the school day closes out, I'm walking down the front steps toward the sidewalk where Harry is already waiting. He's got his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking a little too relaxed for someone who definitely just bombed a pop quiz in third period.

"Hey," he says when he sees me. "You survive?"

"Barely," I mutter, hoisting my backpack higher before it dislocates a shoulder. "I think if I don't spend every waking second tonight studying, I might actually drown under the makeup work."

Harry winces in sympathy.

"You want help?"

"Tempting. But then we'd both fail."

He chuckles and starts walking with me, heading toward the street.

There's a beat of silence before he scratches the back of his neck.

"Hey, uh… sorry about lunch. I didn't know they were all gonna sit with us."

I shrug.

"Why would you apologize for that? It was weirdly… decent."

"Yeah, but I know it was a lot. Gwen, you know why she was over there." He glances at me meaningfully. "Flash and Kong, I don't know. Maybe because you're back?"

I shake my head and let out a dry laugh.

"I wasn't expecting that. Felt like getting adopted by a pack of wolves mid-meal."

Harry snorts.

"Well, wolves don't usually offer you chicken strips."

Before I can reply, the sound of sirens cuts through the air.

We both glance toward the street as a cluster of squad cars speeds past the school, lights flashing, engines howling. It's not subtle.

"Wonder what that's all about?" I ask, squinting as they disappear down the avenue.

Harry just shrugs.

"It's New York. Could be anything."

Could be.

Could be another robbery. Could be a car crash. Could be a mutant bear loose in Queens for all we know.

I keep watching the lights fade into the distance anyway, that part of me—the part that wants to do good—itching to go after them.

But I can't, right now. I'm not ready for that.

I'll get there, but not today.

"I'll talk to you later," I tell Harry, stepping off toward Forest Hills. "I need to get a jump on this schoolwork before it jumps me."

"If you need anything," he says, "just call."

I nod and start to turn—then feel his hand tap my arm.

"Hey," he says, voice low. "Is that her?"

I glance back, following his line of sight.

It's MJ.

She's walking down the stairs alone, earbuds in, denim jacket slung over one shoulder. The breeze catches her ponytail just enough to make it sway. She doesn't even notice us.

"Yeah," I say. "That's her."

"That's MJ?"

"Yes," I repeat, already bracing myself.

Harry lets out a low whistle.

"No wonder Flash looked like he was gonna short-circuit during lunch."

I give him a look.

"You're with Gwen."

Harry lifts his hands innocently.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything. I'm just saying… if your aunt's trying to set you up with that…"

He trails off and grins.

"…you might've hit the jackpot, man."

Oh, you've gotta be shitting me.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T21:13:59+0000

I drop my backpack next to the desk with a heavy, defeated thud, and stand there for a second. Part of me wishes the bag would unzip itself and do the work for me. It doesn't, obviously. So I drag the chair out, sit down, and peel open the folder Midtown has so generously filled with three weeks' worth of work. Because nothing says welcome back from a near-death experience like a mountain of homework.

It's not even one subject. It's everything. Geometry, Biology, English, World History—an entire cross-section of academic suffering, lovingly preserved on crumpled worksheets and photocopies that smell vaguely like printer ink and despair.

I exhale, long and slow, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My brain already feels like it's leaking out my ears just trying to look at all this. And the worst part?

I'm not even starting yet. I'm stalling, because of one goddamn sentence.

"You might've hit the jackpot, man."

Why did he have to say that?

It keeps floating back in, circling like a fly that won't leave me alone. Not in a serious way. Not even in a particularly Harry way. He grinned when he said it. He knew what he was doing. But still—still. It stuck. It lodged itself in the back of my head like gum under a desk, and now every time I try to focus on quadratic equations or osmosis or whatever the hell Emerson was talking about in that essay, all I can hear is Harry's voice, smug and amused and perfectly oblivious.

You might've hit the jackpot, man.

I want to throw my head through this desk.

Instead, I crack open the first binder, grab a pencil, and force myself to start on the math. Because if I don't, this pile is going to outlive me.

Fucking hell.

That was not what I wanted to hear come out of Harry's mouth. Of all the things he could've said. He could've said MJ was cute. He could've made a joke. He could've said nothing. But no—he had to use that line. That specific, stupid, iconic line. Like the universe gave him a script with one job: emotionally sabotage me.

It's so dumb. It's a throwaway comment. Harry doesn't know what it means. Not really. But it hit me like a brick to the teeth. Because I do know what it means. I know exactly where it comes from. I know the weight of it. And for a second—for just a flicker—I felt like I was watching the rails snap off the track.

Why the fuck did he have to say it?

No. No, don't even think about it.

For god's sake, do not think about it.

You are twenty-four. You are not fourteen, no matter what your bone structure and backpack say.

You are twenty-four.

Do. Not. Even. Think it.

Shit, I might kill him. No, don't get mad at Harry. He doesn't know-nobody does. Peter's fourteen, and it was probably a joke.

Well, it doesn't matter if it was a joke, it still makes me sick to my stomach to comprehend it. Why can't I just be friends with someone? That's possible, right? Come on, "Parker," focus dammit.

I shake my head, turning back to the work on my desk.

Right, focus.

I grab the Geometry worksheet first.

I crack the textbook open and skim the chapter—slowly at first, like my brain needs a warm-up lap just to remember what a transversal is. It's been years since I touched any of this. I find the example problem, line it up against the worksheet, and work through the first proof with all the cautious precision of a guy trying to pick a lock he's only pretty sure won't explode.

Then I check it.

Then I check it again.

Then I triple-check it, just to be safe.

Next is Biology. Somehow worse. The entire section on meiosis reads like someone threw every science word they knew into a blender and called it a study guide. I bounce between the glossary and the diagrams, translating it line by line like I'm trying to decode an alien language using duct tape and blind optimism.

But I get through it. Two whole assignments.

Two more than I thought I'd manage.

And just as I start mentally squaring up against the third one like it's some kind of miniboss, I hear her voice from downstairs.

"Peter! Dinner!"

I exhale, drop the pencil like it personally wronged me, and sink back in the chair.

Saved by the aunt.

"Coming!" I call back, already on my feet. I glance at the stack of assignments—still monstrous, still judging me from across the desk—but I give it a nod, like, I see you. You'll get yours.

Dinner might be a break.

But the night?

The night's just getting started.

That evening, I'm sitting on the roof with only a textbook, a notebook, and my last hopes and dreams because this is a lot to deal with. God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I want is her calling May.

It's not even the work, really. Okay—it's partly the work. But mostly, it's the fact that my brain's been doing mental gymnastics all day and now expects me to solve triangle proofs like I'm some kind of academic Spider-Man. Which I'm not.. Yet. Hopefully.

God, I hope Anna doesn't see me. The last thing I need is her calling May like "Your nephew's having an episode on the shingles."

I just wanted fresh air. That's all. Some kind of reprieve where the walls weren't closing in and the light wasn't that awful, yellow ceiling glare that somehow makes me feel like I'm in detention even when I'm not. The porch light wasn't cutting it either—too dim, too buggy, and definitely still within range of being "checked on."

So now I'm here. On the roof. Cross-legged, textbook open, pencil dangling in one hand, and trying to figure out how angle C connects to angle F.

I'm up there for about another twenty minutes, watching the sun bleed out across the horizon like someone knocked over a jar of peach and violet paint. It's quiet up here. Just the sound of distant traffic, the occasional bark, and the steady scratch of my pencil against paper as I pretend to understand what a corresponding angle is.

Then, I hear it.

"Peter?"

I glance over.

There's a window open next door—second floor, facing mine. MJ's leaning on the sill, one elbow propped up casually like she's been there a minute. Her ponytail's a little looser than it was earlier, like the wind's been playing with it. She looks genuinely curious.

"Hey," I say, lifting a hand in a little wave.

She tilts her head.

"What are you doing up there?"

"Homework," I reply, holding the textbook up like a flag of surrender. "Not a cry for help, I swear."

That gets a small laugh out of her—just a little huff through her nose, but I'll take it.

"You always study on rooftops?"

"Couldn't tell ya," I smile, poking the side of my head.

"Right…" she lowers her head, again. "I'll stop asking that eventually, I promise."

I grin, feeling the corners of my mouth tug up despite myself.

"No rush."

She watches me for a moment, like she's weighing whether to say more or just let it sit.

Then she sighs and leans back, resting her forearms on the windowsill.

"Honestly, you look like you could use a break."

I glance down at the textbook, then back up at her.

"Yeah, tell me about it."

She smirks. "Well, if you ever want to study somewhere with better lighting and fewer falling hazards, my porch is not too far."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm not sure whether I want to take that offer up. After my freakout earlier, I don't think I should push the matter further.

"I'll keep it in mind."

She nods, like she gets it. Doesn't press.

"Cool," she says softly, almost like she's filing it away more than anything.

A pause stretches between us. Not awkward. Not yet. Just… quiet.

She glances down, fiddles with a loose thread on the window curtain. "Well. I'll let you get back to it."

"Yeah," I say, tapping the edge of the notebook with my pencil. "Big night of thrilling academic success ahead."

MJ grins.

"Try not to fall off the roof."

"No promises."

She lingers just a second longer—like maybe she wants to say more—but then gives a two-finger wave and pulls the window mostly shut, not slamming it but letting it click closed with finality.

And just like that, I'm alone again.

Just me, the textbook, and a mind that won't shut up.

I sit there long after MJ's window closes, letting the pencil rest idle in my hand. The sky shifts slowly, colors draining from warm peach and violet into deepening shades of indigo and midnight. The sun slips completely below the horizon, and night stretches itself across the city like a thick, velvet blanket.

The city lights flicker on one by one — street lamps, apartment windows, distant car headlights weaving through the streets. From up here, the noise softens to a distant hum, like a lullaby for the restless. Queens feels alive but calm, caught between the chaos of the day and the stillness of night.

I lean back on my hands and let out a slow breath, chest rising and falling. I look out over the rooftops, the patchwork of buildings, the glowing windows like tiny stars pinned against the dark.

It's beautiful.

And for the first time since I woke up in this body, I get why Peter loved this city so damn much. I might not understand everything about it yet — the people, the dangers, the history — but this view, this moment, it's enough to die for.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—a reminder that this city never really sleeps. But up here, with the night wrapped around me, it feels like the world has paused just long enough for me to catch my breath.

I close the textbook with a grimace, reluctantly admitting it's time to call it a night. Standing up, I scan the rooftop—empty. No wandering eyes, no unwanted audience. Good. I don't need Anna or May catching me doing whatever dumb stunt I'm about to attempt.

I glance over at MJ's window. Curtains drawn tight. Perfect. She won't see this.

I step toward the edge of the roof and peer down at the yard below. It's maybe a little higher than I'd like. Okay, a lot higher. Heights aren't exactly my thing. Well, not exactly. It's not heights themselves — it's falling. The idea of landing wrong and breaking something stupidly.

And yeah, I'm used to breaking bones. But I'm not eager to add a new "fun" injury to my collection just yet.

I mean... What's the point of this rooftop perch if I can't make a little leap? Might as well try it. Besides, I'm hoping Peter's legendary healing factor is as real as the spiders that bit him.

I take a deep breath, steady my nerves.
One foot forward.
Then the other.

It's not quite a skyscraper, but I suppose every Spider-Man has to take a leap of faith, right?

The world seems to slow down as I launch myself off the edge.

A sudden buzz prickles at the back of my neck—spider-sense kicking in like some weird built-in alarm system. Panic floods my chest, but I focus on the fall.

I clutch the textbook and notebook tight under my right arm, bracing for impact.

And somehow—somehow—I do a front flip midair.

I hit the ground on one knee, hand pressed firmly against the pavement, textbook still in one arm like a trophy.

HOLY SHIT.

I sit there for a second, heart hammering, the rush of adrenaline sharp and loud in my ears.

Did I just... stick the landing?

I actually might have.

I push off the ground to stand, chest still pounding—and then, because of course, my foot catches on something invisible, and down I go, face first into the grass.

"Of course…" I mutter, mouth full of dirt and my shattered dignity.

Because why wouldn't I fall after doing something like that? Way to keep my ego in check, universe.

I stand up, wiping the dirt off of myself only to see the front door open to the Watsons', and MJ steps out. She doesn't notice me at first. She's in her pajamas, moving to a chair on the porch. MJ looks a bit off. I don't know, like she's got something on her mind.

I drop my textbook and notebook carefully on the bottom step, the worn wood creaking under the weight. The night air feels cooler now, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and something faintly sweet—maybe lilacs from a neighbor's garden.

MJ's sitting on the porch chair, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs like she's holding herself together. Her pajamas aren't the typical flannel kind—more like soft cotton, loose and comfortable, the kind that's clearly seen a dozen restless nights. The fabric wrinkles where her elbows press in, and the pale blue of the top makes her pale skin look even softer under the porch light's glow.

Her hair's a little tousled now, strands escaping the ponytail to frame her face in a way that makes her look… less guarded, somehow. She's staring out into the street, but her eyes aren't really seeing it. There's a weight there—something heavy but quiet, like she's carrying it all on the inside.

I clear my throat and tap the wood beam beside her. The sudden noise snaps her out of whatever she's wrapped up in. Her eyes flicker toward me, surprise flashing briefly before she masks it with that familiar half-smile—the one that says, "I wasn't expecting company."

"Hey," I say, voice softer than usual.

She straightens a little, but still keeps her legs hugged close, like the chair's the only thing grounding her.

"Hey," she replies, voice low.

The porch light flickers once, casting brief shadows across her face, and for a moment, I just watch her—not wanting to pry, but wanting her to know I'm here.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. I can't help but notice the softness, almost withdrawn tone of her voice. It's almost like she's on the verge of crying.

"Well, I was seeing if that offer went beyond studying." I say, not moving from my spot.

MJ doesn't say anything.

"Okay... I saw you come out, and I guess I wanted to talk to you."

She blinks slowly, like she's processing more than just my words. The faintest tremor catches the edge of her lip before she clears her throat.

"Talk, huh?" she says, voice still low but steadying. "About what?"

I shuffle my feet, suddenly aware of how loud the night feels—the crickets, the distant hum of traffic, the faint buzz of a streetlamp above us. It's like the whole world's waiting for an answer.

"Honestly? I don't really know," I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be.

I take a slow step forward and lower myself onto the railing below her. The rough wood presses against my back, steadying me after that not-so-graceful fall. She's perched just above, legs curled close, arms wrapped around her knees like a shield. Somehow, that makes me feel less awkward.

She looks down at me, her voice soft but pointed. "Seriously, Peter... what are you doing here?"

I meant what I said, I really don't know. I guess I wanted to extend the same kindness she gave me earlier.

I run a hand through my hair, shrugging.

"Like I said, I wanted to talk to you."

Her gaze flickers away for a moment, like she's wrestling with something she doesn't want to say. Then she meets my eyes again, voice quieter now.

"I'm not really in the mood to talk."

The pause stretches. I glance toward my house, then back at her.

"If you want me to go, I can."

She shakes her head, but there's no smile.

"I didn't say that."

Her words hang in the air, fragile and a little hesitant. And just like that, the quiet between us feels less like a wall, and more like an invitation.

I settle into the silence, letting the night stretch out between us. For a few minutes, I don't say a word—honestly, not sure what to say anyway. The crickets chirp steadily, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails like a reminder that life keeps moving.

Then, something catches my eye. The faintest glimmer of redness rims the corners of MJ's eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Like she's been wiping away tears.

"MJ?" My voice is quiet, cautious. "Are you okay?"

She gives a small nod, like she's trying to agree with me, trying to convince herself more than me. But there's that tremor again—right at the edge of her lip, betraying everything she's not saying.

I push up from the porch floor and lean against the railing beside her, a little closer now. Not close enough to crowd her, but enough that I'm not just a background noise in her evening anymore.

The wood's cool against my back, grounding. My palms itch with the urge to fidget, to say something stupid, or to run—but I don't. I stay.

I'm not good at this. Never have been. Comforting people isn't my specialty—I'm more of a nervous joke guy or someone who panics at the exact wrong time. But I can't just sit here and pretend everything's fine when clearly it's not.

After too long debating it, I let out a quiet sigh and glance her way.

"You don't have to pretend with me, okay?" I say. "I'll admit, I'm not the best at this, but… I'm here. So, if something's eating at you, I'm all ears."

She doesn't answer right away.

Her arms are still curled around her knees, knuckles faintly white where she's gripping tighter than she probably realizes. Her eyes don't meet mine—just stay fixed somewhere off in the dark, like there's something only she can see.

"I shouldn't let it get to me," she murmurs finally, her voice quiet. Flat. "It's just… he called earlier. My dad."

I don't move. Just lean slightly closer, not crowding her—just enough so she knows I'm still here.

She swallows hard, eyes still distant.

"He was drunk. Or... I think he was. He always is, lately." A pause, then a shallow breath. "He said they were happy. That everything was fine until I came along."

That lands like a rock in my chest.

She says it like she's quoting a voicemail. Like it's not the first time she's heard it.

There's no drama in the way she delivers it. No tears. Just that same hollow edge I remember from when we walked together—like she's already done all her crying behind a locked bathroom door somewhere, and now there's only the ache left behind.

I don't say anything.

Instead, I just stay where I am—leaning on the porch railing, letting the silence hold its shape between us.

"Peter, it... it hurts," she says, barely above a whisper.

I glance toward her again—and that's when I see them. Fresh tears slipping quietly down her cheeks, like they've been waiting for permission to fall.

Her voice cracks as she asks, "Why does he hate me?"

It's not rhetorical. Not said with bitterness. Just raw confusion. Like a kid trying to solve a math problem that never had an answer to begin with.

And God, I want to say something. Anything. I want to tell her it's not her fault, that her dad's a coward, that no child deserves to carry blame for grown-up failures. But my mouth won't move. My chest feels tight.

Fuck, I hate being in these situations. I don't even realize I'm doing it, but I find myself wrapping my arms around her, bringing her into a hug.

She doesn't pull away. That's the part that gets me.

She just lets herself fold into me—quiet at first, but then the sob hits, deep and shaking, and she clutches the front of my shirt like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

I don't know what I'm doing. I really don't. I've never been great at comforting people—never had the right words, never knew when to speak or when to stay silent. But right now, it doesn't matter.

My arms wrap tighter around her, and I rest my chin lightly on top of her head. I can feel her shoulders trembling against me.

She smells like lavender shampoo and the faint musk of worn cotton, and something in my chest aches because she shouldn't have to feel like this. Not tonight. Not ever.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into my chest. "I didn't mean to dump this on you."

"You didn't," I murmur. "You didn't dump anything."

She sniffles, but doesn't let go.

I rub my thumb gently along her arm—slow, steady, grounding. I don't even think about it. It just feels like the only thing I can do while she breathes ragged into my shirt. Her hand still clutches the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her upright, and I let her. I let her hold on as long as she needs.

The porch light hums quietly above us. A car drives by down the block, tires whispering along the asphalt, but otherwise it's just the two of us here in this still, quiet night.

After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—I finally manage to find something to say. Something I won't regret.

"MJ…" I whisper, voice low and careful, "if he can't appreciate you, that's on him. It's not your fault, okay?"

She doesn't move, but her fingers twitch against my side.

"As far as I'm concerned," I continue, "he doesn't deserve to have a daughter like you if that's how he feels."

Her breath stutters, like my words hit something locked up for far too long.

But she still doesn't let go.

I only found those words because I had to say them to myself before. My dad wasn't around much, and some days, I wondered why I wasn't enough for him to stay. It stung even more knowing he had another kid years later, and called them his 'first kid.'

It's rarely the kid that's ever the problem.

She sniffles, and in a whisper that I can barely catch, says:

"Thank you…"

I may not be good at this, but I know what it's like being in that position. I didn't get a chance to let my emotions out over this, but if I can help her with it, then that's perfectly fine. Even if she ends up crying all over one of my brand new shirts.

Eventually—after what might be a minute, or maybe two—she pulls back. Not abruptly, not like she regrets it—just like the storm inside her has finally passed. At least for tonight.

Her eyes are still red, lashes damp, but now her face is red too—a blush creeping in around her cheeks as she avoids my gaze. She clears her throat, rubbing the back of her wrist across her face as if she can erase what just happened.

"Thank you, Peter… I mean it."

Her voice is steadier now, but there's something delicate beneath it—something raw and real that she's still holding onto, even if she's trying not to show it.

I don't say anything right away. I just smile.

"You don't have to thank me," I say quietly. "Least I could do."

She finally looks at me—just for a second—and the way her eyes meet mine? There's a kind of quiet understanding there.

She exhales slowly, like she's been holding her breath for longer than she realized.

Then, as if to reset everything, she stretches her legs out and stands. Her movements are slower than usual, like she's still shaking off the emotional weight.

"Sorry about your shirt," she murmurs, glancing at the wrinkled mess of cotton clinging to my chest.

I glance down at it. Yup, it's definitely tear-stained, with bits of make-up mixed in.

"Eh," I shrug. "Gives it character."

That gets the tiniest laugh from her, and for a second, the heaviness lifts.

We stand there together, not quite brushing shoulders, watching the quiet street stretch out in front of us.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, my voice soft as I glance at the time and realize how late it's gotten.

MJ wipes her face one last time with the edge of her sleeve and nods, a little too quickly.

"You sure?" I press gently, not accusing—just checking.

"I will," she says, then adds with a small, tired smile, "I'm going to stay out here a bit longer. That way Anna doesn't see me like this."

"Okay." I nod. "I think I'm gonna head home… don't want May getting worried."

She gives a small huff of acknowledgment, the barest ghost of a laugh, but it's real.

She shifts on her feet, like she's not quite sure what to do next. Then she looks at me—really looks at me.

"Thank you again," she says softly.

I smile, tilting my head just a little.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

Before I can react, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me again. It's gentler this time—less desperate, more grateful. I hug her back without hesitation.

"Goodnight, MJ," I murmur.

"Goodnight, Peter."

I step down from the porch and start walking back toward the house, the grass cool beneath my feet and the night air brushing gently against my face.

But just before I reach the door, something tugs at me, and I glance back.

She's still standing there, arms loosely folded now, watching me go. There's no smile, no wave—just her, quiet and present in the moment.

"Hey, MJ…" I call.

Her head lifts a little.

"Yeah?"

I let a grin tug at one side of my mouth.

"I might take you up on that study offer next time."

This time, she does smile.

"I'll be here," she says.

And with that, I head inside.

I sit down on my bed, the springs creaking softly beneath me as I let out a breath I didn't realize I was still holding. The room is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow leaking in from the streetlamp outside my window. It casts soft shadows across the walls, turning everything just a little more surreal.

I can still feel MJ's hug.

The warmth of it lingers like heat from a blanket that's been pulled away. The weight of her pain settles somewhere deep in my chest. The crack in her voice when she asked why he hated her—it hits harder now than it did in the moment. I wasn't ready for how much that would stay with me.

As I stare at the ceiling, I find myself thinking about something I hadn't planned on.

Maybe… I was meant to cross paths with MJ.

I mean, sure—every Peter Parker has his MJ. That's almost a law of the multiverse, right? But maybe it's not always some tragic romance with tears and broken promises and too many missed chances.

Maybe this version—my version—can be different.

I roll onto my side, the pillow cool against my cheek, finally ready to let the day go. Sleep is already starting to tug at the edges of my mind when—

Bzzt bzzt.

The phone buzzes on my nightstand, cutting through the silence. I groan softly, reach for it, and squint at the screen.

Harry…

I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Pete…" Harry's voice is quiet, hesitant. "Hope I'm not waking you."

"I just laid down, but it's fine," I say, straightening. "What's up, Har?"

There's a pause. Then, "Uh, I—"

"You okay?" I cut in gently, noticing the tension bleeding through the line.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's… it's Dad. Something's going on with him."

I feel my chest tighten, but I don't let my thoughts jump to the worst just yet.

"What do you mean?"

"He's been acting differently since you stopped by the other day. And he just left the penthouse without telling me anything. Didn't even tell me he was leaving."

"Wait—left?" I sit up straighter. "He didn't say anything at all?"

"Nope. He just disappeared. I asked the staff, they didn't know either."

That's not like Norman. Everything I've seen and heard so far tells me he's a man who doesn't do random.

"Okay," I say slowly. "How exactly has he been acting? What's different?"

Harry exhales into the phone, and I hear the scrape of a chair or something shifting on his end.

"He's… I don't know. Shifty. Distant. Jumpy, almost. I've never seen him like this, Pete."

"Could it be health-related?" I ask. "Bad news from a doctor or something?"

"If it is, he didn't tell me," Harry mutters. "But he's been keeping things from me for a while now."

I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The shadows stretch long beneath me. Something's not sitting right about this.

"Alright," I say quietly. "Let me think for a minute."

There's a silence between us. Not awkward—just heavy. Like we both know we're circling something bigger than either of us wants to admit.

"This isn't normal, Pete," Harry says, his voice tightening. "He doesn't just leave. Not like that. He always tells me. Or has someone tell me."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."

He's nervous, and for good reason. Norman's sick, so if he's hiding something, that could be really bad. Then again, it could be something worse. I immediately think back to the guy in the lobby that I'd seen. Had he been part of Norman's change in behavior? Maybe I need to talk to Norman, if I can get the chance.

"Call me if he comes back, okay?" I ask.

"Sure, no problem." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice: "Pete… Dad would tell me if his health was declining, right?"

I hesitate.

That hesitation says more than I want it to. I rub my forehead, wishing I had an answer that didn't feel like a coin toss.

"Yeah," I say, because it feels like the thing I'm supposed to say. "I think he would."

But the truth is—I don't know. I've known Norman Osborn for maybe a few hours total. Harry's known him his whole life, and he's not even sure.

"I just don't want to lose him," Harry says finally. His voice drops to a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it real.

My chest tightens, because I get it. That fear? It's not just about sickness—it's about watching someone you love become someone you don't recognize.

"I get it," I say softly. "You're not going to… I'm sure Norman's fine, and he'll be back before you know it."

MEANWHILE

The building was quiet this time of night—quiet in a way only glass and steel could be. Cold. Controlled. The kind of silence that echoed in the bones and clung to the walls like a secret.

Norman Osborn stood in the center of his old office, a place he hadn't set foot in for months—not since he stepped down as CEO to begin treatment. The walls were still lined with accolades and innovation, etched metal plates and framed patents. They stared at him like ghosts.

The city stretched out beyond the glass wall, lights flickering like fireflies over the East River. He didn't care to look at it tonight.

Instead, he waited.

He stood near the bar cart, one hand resting on its edge, the other loosely curled around a heavy tumbler of whiskey. The ice had mostly melted. The drink was warm now, bitter with time.

Norman took a slow sip and let the alcohol burn its way down. His posture was steady, but his eyes kept darting—barely perceptible shifts as he watched the shadows cast by the tall shelves and the darkened corners of the room.

His reflection in the window didn't look like the man who used to command boardrooms. He looked... thinner. Paler. Tired. There was a dull sheen in his eyes—not quite fear, but something adjacent. Dread, maybe.

There was a flicker of movement.

He didn't jump, but he did turn—calmly, mechanically—just in time to see a figure drop silently from the ceiling, landing with a whisper-soft thud against the polished floor.

The man was dressed in black from head to toe. Skin-tight fabric. Tactical gloves. A ski mask obscured his face, but his gait gave him away before the voice did.

"Sorry I'm late," the intruder said, peeling the mask off with practiced ease.

Underneath was the grinning face of Walter Hardy—older now, streaks of gray in his slicked-back hair, but still carrying himself with the kind of sharp confidence that only came from decades of slipping past lasers and locks.

Norman gave the faintest nod.

"You're fine, Walter. Were you successful?"

Walter's grin widened, cocky and dangerous.

"You know me, Norman. The Black Cat always gets his prey."

He slung a small black satchel from his shoulder and unzipped it. From inside, he carefully withdrew a reinforced, temperature-controlled vial—about the size of a thermos—and handed it over like it was a bomb.

"Though, I'll admit… paying me to rob your own company is a strange request."

Norman took the container and held it up to the light, turning it slowly in his hand. The fluid inside shimmered faintly, preserved in whatever solution the Oscorp vaults had been using.

"It might be strange," Norman said, his voice low, grave, "but I promise you—this asset is far too important to fall into the wrong hands."

He unsealed the top with a hiss of released pressure, peeled back the containment lining, and inside… was a spider.

Not just any spider.

The spider.

The one that bit Peter Parker.

Its curled legs were still intact, its red-and-blue markings preserved perfectly. Lifeless, but no less dangerous. It looked like something out of a nightmare—half science project, half divine accident.

Norman stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The light glinted off the glass, casting a warped silhouette across his face.

Walter shifted on his feet, the silence stretching.

"So," Walter said eventually, "what's the next step?"

Norman sealed the container again and set it down on the edge of the desk with delicate precision. Then he took another sip of whiskey, slower this time.

"I need to make sure this never falls into their hands," he said, more to himself than to Walter. His voice was softer now. Tense. Like he was admitting something aloud for the first time.

Walter arched an eyebrow, brushing invisible dust from his gloves.

"This was Richard's project, wasn't it?"

Norman's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to the window, but his reflection didn't look any steadier than before.

"Yes," he said finally, voice hushed. "It was."

There was a pause, as Norman closed his eyes.

"I would never see his work corrupted."

Walter didn't respond right away. He just watched Norman, carefully. The way his shoulders tensed when he said Richard's name. The weariness that wasn't just physical—it was guilt. It was grief.

"Funny," Walter muttered, stepping away from the desk. "People on the outside think Oscorp was always your baby. But I remember the early days. It was yours and Richard's. He had the soul. You had the spine."

Norman gave the faintest twitch of a smile.

"And now there's too little of either."

He picked up the container again, holding it carefully in one hand, like it might wake up and bite.

Walter took a step closer. His voice was low, but edged with something genuine.

"I know you, Norman. You wouldn't ask me to commit a crime unless you had a damn good reason. I came out of retirement because of you. I swore when my daughter was born that I would never put the claws back on."

His tone sharpened. Concern rippled just beneath the surface.

"Who are these people?"

Norman's eyes darkened with something unspoken.

"I can't tell you, Walter," Norman said finally. His voice had shifted—colder now, distant, like a shadow creeping over a fading light. "But all you need to know is that they were willing to kill Richard and Mary Parker to ensure this spider was never created."

Walter's eyes narrowed, the weight of the truth pressing in like a vice.

"What? They were the ones that killed Richard?"

Norman didn't flinch. Just met his gaze with a hollow calm.

"Yes."

For a moment, Walter said nothing. His jaw tightened. The confident veneer—the veteran thief, the legend of the underworld—slipped, just a little.

"My daughter…" he said slowly, voice quieter now, like he was already imagining worst-case headlines. "Is she in danger?"

Norman turned back to the window, his reflection fractured by the city lights flickering in the glass. He swirled the whiskey in his glass once, then answered without looking:

"So long as your involvement tonight is never discovered... no."

Walter stood still, tension rippling under his skin like a wire pulled taut.

"But if it is?" he asked.

Now Norman looked at him. Just for a second. A tired, weathered glance that carried far too much understanding.

"Then God help us both."

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:55:44+0000

I will admit, I don't often dream as much lately. When I was a kid, I would dream often in these bombastic, cinematic level events. I never got to see them through my own eyes. It always felt like I was watching myself through a camera lens. Looking back on it, I can't help but think of one where it was this weird mash-up of Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man and the Tom Cruise version of War of the Worlds.

Weird, I know. But I was like seven when I had the dream. Uh, where was I going with this?

Oh… right.

I never felt like I was genuinely experiencing the dream. Only in a nightmare did I ever feel like I was right there.

Well, after getting off the phone with Harry, that's exactly what I had…

A nightmare.

I was back in Norman's office. He'd called me and asked me to come see him. It was important, and it couldn't wait. The computer had images of me on there. Not just from the field trip, but like at home. Recent ones too. Even had an image of me standing with MJ on her porch, holding her as she was crying.

My stomach twisted, realizing he was watching me. There's a click of a door, and when I look up, there he is. He's standing there with a volatile smile, one that makes my heart drop at the sight of it.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks across the office, slow, unhurried. Each step echoes too loud—like we're not in a building anymore, but a hollow stage built to look like one.

"You've changed," he says, stopping just short of the desk. "There's a new spark behind your eyes, Peter."

The way he says my name makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. There's this drag on it—like he's savoring it. Like the name itself is a joke he's about to explain.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, except my voice doesn't sound right. Too small. Too young.

He doesn't answer.

Instead, he tilts his head, and I notice the first spider. It drops from the ceiling, a single thread of webbing lowering it down until it lands silently on his shoulder. Then another. And another.

Within seconds, they're crawling all over him—up his chest, across his face, into his hair—but he doesn't blink or swat at them. He just keeps looking at me like I'm the freak here.

"Funny," Norman murmurs. "You think you're hiding. But I see it. The way you move. The way you hesitate before speaking. You're not the same boy I knew."

I want to step back, but I can't move. My feet are locked in place.

The spiders keep coming—some of them skittering across the floor, others dropping from the rafters. They crawl across the desk, past the photos, into the shadows. One of them scales the computer monitor and stops right in the center of the screen—where an image of MJ and I is frozen, paused like we're a file being reviewed.

Norman finally moves.

He leans forward slowly, spiders squirming under the collar of his shirt as his skin starts to… shift. Not fast. Just enough that it's wrong. His neck tightens, veins rising. A sickly green tint seeps through his cheeks.

"I could tear you open," he whispers, "and see what's really inside."

That's when I scream—except nothing comes out.

I can feel it clawing at my throat, but all I manage is a rasp. My vision shakes, the room starts to melt like wax, and Norman's smile splits wider than it should be humanly possible.

And then—

I wake up.

Not slowly. Not peacefully. I'm yanked out of sleep like someone cracked open my chest and pulled me upright by the ribs.

My body's already reacting before my brain can catch up. I'm sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat like I ran a marathon in my sleep. The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp and clinging, and my skin feels like it's humming—every nerve twitching with leftover static from the nightmare.

I want to say it was just a dream. Just some leftover stress cooked up by my overactive brain. Worst-case-scenario garbage. But that doesn't explain the way my hands are shaking. Or the way my throat's tight like I did scream and it just got lost in the pillow.

And it definitely doesn't explain why my heart won't slow the hell down.

The room's quiet—too quiet. It's that kind of early morning stillness where everything feels like it's holding its breath. The faint glow from the window tells me it's not even sunrise yet. Somewhere between night and day, where nothing feels quite real. Shadows stretch longer. Corners look unfamiliar.

My breathing's ragged. Shallow. I try to pull in air, but it doesn't feel like enough. It's like trying to drink through a pinhole straw. My chest keeps tightening, and I can hear my pulse in my ears—fast, frantic, like I'm still trapped back there, in that office, with him staring at me.

Norman.

God.

Even now, I can still see the look in his eyes. The spiders crawling over him. The green bleeding into his skin. The way he said my name like it wasn't really mine.

Peter.

That part won't leave me alone. The way he looked at me like he already knew. Not just who I was—but what I was.

I run a hand through my hair and realize it's soaked too. My fingers feel cold against my scalp. I glance down and notice I'm gripping the edge of my mattress like it's the only thing keeping me tethered. Nails digging into the fabric. I don't even remember grabbing it.

I try to talk myself down. It's fine. It was a nightmare. It's not real.

But then I remember what Harry said on the phone. That Norman hasn't been the same since my visit. That he's been distant. Erratic.

And yeah—rationally, I know it's probably that guy I saw in the lobby that night. But there's still this other part of me. The part that remembers everything Norman becomes in the stories I grew up with.

That part's screaming.

And I'm trying not to listen to it.

But it's hard when your skin still feels like it's crawling… and you don't know if you brought the nightmare back with you.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, hands still unsteady, and see a missed call from Harry. A text follows a minute later:

Tried calling you. He just got back.

Only a few hours ago.

I just stare at the message for a second, letting it sit there on the screen like it might tell me more if I keep looking at it. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. My thumb hovers, but I don't type anything back. Not yet.

I try to stretch like usual, but my arms feel like they're still stuck in that bed. Like I never really left it.

The bathroom mirror is waiting for me, whether I like it or not.

The water's cold when I splash it on my face, and I welcome the shock. It breaks through the leftover fog and jolts something sharp back into focus. I grip the edges of the sink and lean forward, letting the drops fall, watching them streak down the porcelain like sweat.

Once I'm done, I check the time. Only about an hour until my alarm goes off. No point in trying to fall back asleep now. Not with my brain still running on fumes and dread.

So I change, lace up my shoes, and head out for the run.

The air outside's got that damp, early-morning chill to it—just cold enough to sting a little when I breathe in too deep. The kind of air that makes the city feel slower. Quieter.

I'm locking the door when I hear footsteps on the porch across the way. MJ's coming down the steps, earbuds in, hoodie zipped halfway. Her eyes catch mine for a second, and we give each other a nod. Nothing more.

It's weird seeing her this soon after last night. After she fell apart in my arms, even though we barely know each other.

There's a part of me that's glad she felt safe enough to let it out. That she trusted me, even just for a moment.

But there's another part—a deeper, uncomfortable one—that keeps whispering: That shouldn't have been you.

That wasn't supposed to be your job.

Either way, we still end up next to each other. I don't know if she slowed down to match me or if I sped up to match her, but it doesn't matter. We just fall into step like we've been doing this for years instead of… what, three days?

The street lamps are still on. Queens is quiet—just the occasional car, a few dog walkers, and the distant hum of a bus starting its route.

We don't really talk.

But I don't think we need to.

At one point, she glances over like she's about to say something… but doesn't.

It's only when we're back at our houses when MJ says something to me for the first time that morning.

"See you at school," she says, tugging one earbud out and giving me the smallest half-smile.

"See ya," I say, quieter than I meant to.

"Peter!"

I glance back.

She's at the top of her steps, one hand on the railing. There's a pause—like she's not sure if she actually wants to go through with whatever she's about to say.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Do you… want to walk to school together?"

It catches me off guard for a second. I don't know what I thought she was going to say, but it wasn't that.

Still, it's... nice.

"Yeah," I tell her. "I'd like that."

With that, I walk inside and head upstairs to get cleaned up.

By the time I've showered, thrown on something clean, and made it through a quick breakfast, the sun is properly up. Ben and May don't even look surprised I'm already moving. It hasn't even been a full week and they're acting like my morning runs have always been a thing. I suppose that's a good thing.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab an apple for the road, and call out a quick, "See you later!" before stepping outside.

MJ's already back on her porch. She's leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, hoodie half-zipped like it hasn't quite hit her that the day's started yet. Her hair's still damp at the ends, like she had rushed a shower and didn't care to dry it all the way. She sees me and straightens up a little.

There's a moment where we just look at each other. It doesn't feel awkward, exactly, but I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about last night too.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," she replies, then adjusts the strap of her bag and starts walking. I fall into step beside her, and just like earlier, there's not much talking.

It's weird. Just a few days ago, I was freaking out about not wanting to meet her—but now, here I am walking to school with her. It's funny, because now that I genuinely think about it, most of my interactions with her have been around physical activities.

Last night was the only exception.

We pass a few kids heading the same direction, some adults pulling out of driveways, someone's sprinklers still running on a timer. The sidewalk smells faintly of wet leaves and leftover pavement heat from the day before.

About halfway there, MJ finally speaks.

"Hey—" she says, breaking the silence, "here."

I glance over, confused for a second to see her pulling her phone out. She holds it out to me, and I take it gingerly. The contact screen is open. I try to hide the smile creeping its way onto my face.

"I, uh—what do you want me to put it under?" I ask.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"Just put Peter. What else would you put?"

"I don't know. McLovin?"

MJ doesn't laugh, but I can tell she wants to. There's a pause, just long enough for her lips to twitch like she's fighting it. I grin anyway, type it in, and hand her the phone. She gives a tiny nod when she sees it.

A moment later, I hear the softest giggle escape her.

"What?" I glance over, raising an eyebrow.

"You're a dork."

"Even amnesia isn't taking that away from me," I say, chuckling.

In my old life, I got called that all the time. Dork. Nerd. Whatever version people felt like that day. One of the ways I dealt with it—besides just trying to disappear into my hoodie—was making jokes before other people could. Self-deprecating humor was my shield. If I said it first, it didn't sting as bad when they did.

Even though my self-esteem has gotten better, the jokes have been a relentless habit that I doubt will ever go away— that's one reason I should consider myself lucky that I woke up as Peter Parker.

I mean… The guy practically has a copyright on sarcasm.

MJ glances over at me, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Well," she says, brushing her hair back behind her ear, "guess you're in luck."

I blink.

"How's that?"

She shrugs.

"I like dorks."

My brain skips like a scratched CD. I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk, and it takes every ounce of dignity I have not to make it worse. I recover fast—hopefully fast enough—and manage:

"G-good to know."

She doesn't say anything else. Just keeps walking, earbuds back in—but there's a definite smirk on her face now. And I'm pretty sure she knows exactly what she just did to me.

Suddenly, I'm back to internally screaming about the age difference.

By the time we reach the school, MJ still has that same smile on her face. Not a full grin—just that small, knowing curve that makes it obvious she's enjoying how off-balance she's left me.

She pulls one earbud out as we reach the steps.

"Catch you later, Peter."

I nod, but it's not even a cool nod. It's one of those automatic, slightly delayed ones where my brain's still buffering.

"Yeah. Later."

She turns and heads inside, ponytail swaying behind her, and I just… stand there. Like an idiot.

Not because I don't want to follow her in, but because I have no idea what to do with myself. My brain's still short-circuiting from I like dorks, and if I try to say literally anything else right now, I'll probably embarrass myself on a molecular level.

Fuckin teenage hormones… right?

So I hang back near the entrance.

Waiting for Harry.

Because I really, really need to focus on something other than, well… her.

But of course, the universe doesn't even give me that.

"You two walked to school together?!" Harry's voice hits me before I even see him—he's already standing there, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, shit-eating grin I've ever seen on a human face. "My, my… what a big step for you, Mr. Parker."

"Oh my God, shut up," I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "It's not like that."

"Uh-huh. Then why are you blushing like you just got caught holding hands at a middle school dance?"

"I hate you."

"You love me," Harry grins. "Say it back."

I flip him off instead.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I just stabbed him with a rusty butter knife.

"Oh, you wound me, Pete. I'll never recover from this. My heart—shattered. My spirit—crushed. This is how villains are made, you know."

I shoot him a look. I know how villains are made, and I cannot say I've ever seen someone become a villain over getting flipped off. Murdered? Sure. Happens every time I play GTA, but then again I'm the one going on a rampage. But that's a video game…

"Yeah, well, I'll be sure to cry at your tragic origin story."

"You better," he sniffs dramatically. "With tears. Real ones. I want mascara running."

"I don't wear mascara." I tilt my head.

"Well, you better start now, because I want an award-winning performance from you."

I shake my head, finally cracking a grin despite myself. God help me, but he's good at making me forget my brain's on fire. Even if he does it by setting more fires.

"C'mon, drama queen," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. "Let's get to class."

"You're just upset that I caught you lovebirds," he says, bolting ahead before I can smack him.

The fuck he just call us?

"WE'RE NOT—SHUT UP!"

A.S.
A.S.
A.S.

There was a particular kind of silence that only the rich ever heard. The kind that came with altitude—glass walls, private elevators, the hush of a city held at arm's length. It was the quiet of being untouchable.

Tony Stark woke to that silence wrapped in a tangle of limbs and Egyptian cotton. The women next to him were still asleep, breath slow and even. One had an arm thrown lazily over his chest, the other curled in close like they were orbiting the same gravitational pull. Neither stirred when he groaned and pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his face like it had personally offended him.

Sunlight poured in through twenty-foot windows, bathing the penthouse in a golden wash that made everything look expensive—because it was. From the floating glass staircase to the climate-controlled wine vault, every inch had been handpicked, designed, and customized for its owner.

Tony swung his legs out of bed, stretching once before standing. He padded across the room barefoot, scooping his robe off the back of a leather chair. Burgundy velvet with gold trim, ridiculous and regal. Exactly the kind of thing you wore when you were trying to convince the world you didn't have a single problem.

It'd been about a year since his father, Howard, had passed away in that tragic accident en route to Latveria.

The world had called it a malfunction. A faulty guidance chip in the jet's autopilot system. Weather complications. Unfortunate circumstances. The kind of language that softened the violence of loss until it sounded palatable—digestible. But Tony knew better. Or at least, he suspected.

He didn't talk about it. Not even to himself. But some mornings—mornings like this one, where the sun hit the old Stark Industries crest just right on the wall across the room—he felt it again. The emptiness. The lingering shape of a father's absence.

They hadn't always gotten along. Howard could be cold, exacting, impossible to please. But there were moments that stuck with him anyway. Late nights in the workshop. Blueprints scattered across the dining room table. Howard handing him a soldering iron when he was ten and saying, "Don't burn the carpet this time."

Tony hadn't. Well—not that time.

He stood for a moment in the quiet, just letting memory breathe. Then he turned away and headed into the bathroom.

"JARVIS?" he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

A moment later, the familiar reply came from the hidden ceiling speakers—calm, posh, and unbothered.

"Good morning, sir. It is 10:47 A.M."

Tony squinted at his reflection. The mirror lit automatically, illuminating the fine architecture of his face—chiseled, half-awake, annoyingly symmetrical. He looked tired, but good. He always looked good. It was a curse.

"Tell time to take a number," he muttered, reaching for his razor.

As the blades hummed to life, JARVIS continued, "Mr. Stane has requested a meeting at your earliest convenience."

"Oh, come on, Jarv. I just woke up, buddy. Give me some good news."

"Ms. Virginia Potts has accepted the position. Effective immediately."

Tony paused mid-shave, one brow lifting.

"Now that's what I'm talking about."

Pepper had been a late-stage interview, technically a formality. She'd walked into the room with no patience for showmanship and even less for his ego. She didn't blink when he offered her three times what she was asking. That had impressed him.

He finished shaving, splashed water on his face, and toweled off. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the penthouse was awake with quiet automation. Lights adjusted. Coffee brewed. The fridge displayed a biometric greeting. He ignored it and pulled out the cold brew, drinking straight from the bottle.

The table near the balcony was cluttered with blueprints and prototype schematics—military-grade designs layered with cutting-edge elegance. Drones. Energy rifles. Armor components.

An open laptop screen flickered quietly with classified readouts. One window was labeled:

PROJECT LUX – TARGET ACQUISITION SYSTEM (FIELD READY)

Another showed a folder flagged for deletion:

CROSS SPECIES GENETICS – INACTIVE

Tony swiped it closed without opening it. That project was destined for the scrap heap at this point. Messing with DNA could only go wrong. Connors and Michaels had tried their damnedest to keep it alive, but they failed nevertheless. Machinery was the future.

The TV was still on in the background. Morning news.

"—and in Lower Manhattan, police have confirmed yet another death in the string of so-called Vampire Killings. The victim was discovered with no blood, no visible trauma, and no signs of forced entry. Authorities are urging citizens to avoid traveling alone after dark—"

A cut to Mayor Fisk at a podium. He looked too large for the frame, jaw set, voice calm.

"Let me assure the public that this city will not be terrorized. I have personally authorized the expansion of our tactical response teams. We will find the one responsible, and we will bring them to justice."

Tony muted the broadcast with a quick flick.

He wasn't worried about Fisk. The man might've worn a suit like a statesman, but Tony had seen the contracts. The private investments. The armored task force. It wasn't protection—it was leverage. Stark tech flowed into the mayor's hands like water through a carved channel. And as long as the checks cleared, Tony didn't ask questions.

He wandered into his personal office. One wall lit up automatically as he entered—an interactive display of Stark history.

The centerpiece was a photograph of Howard, flanked by two engineers, all of them standing beside a hulking steel prototype. The plaque beneath read:

PROJECT I.M.

Tony stared at it longer than he meant to.

Howard looked proud. Exhausted, but proud.

"I know, Dad," Tony said quietly. "You wanted better."

He opened a hidden drawer in the desk. Inside sat a sleek gauntlet—gunmetal gray with a soft blue core at its center. No wires, no mess. Pure tech. He slid it on, flexed his fingers, and felt the energy hum back at him like it knew him.

He turned his palm outward. Let the repulsor flicker to life with a high-pitched whine.

Beautiful. Precise. Absolute.

Then he powered it down and removed it.

"Better every day," he muttered. "Too bad Obie doesn't get it."

He almost believed that. But lately, Tony was starting to wonder if Obie did get it—just not in the way he wanted.

A soft ping from the elevator.

Obadiah had arrived.

Tony didn't move. He stood by the window, looking out over the skyline that had never looked more fragile.

He was lucky, he thought. Very lucky.

If it hadn't been for the Rasputin siblings intercepting that convoy in Afghanistan last spring, he might've ended up in a ditch halfway across the desert. Bag over his head. Fingers broken. Blood on the sand.

But fate had intervened.

And in return, he was going to build something the world wouldn't forget.

Something that could never be taken away.

Not again.

Tony wandered back toward the living room, cold brew still in hand. The morning sun had shifted across the skyline, casting long shadows through the penthouse's glass walls. A folded copy of The Daily Bugle lay abandoned on the arm of the couch, the paper crisp and untouched except for a faint coffee ring near the masthead.

He picked it up absently, eyes scanning the front page.

TRAGEDY IN WAKANDA — KING T'CHAKA KILLED IN TERROR ATTACK.

The subheadline went into more detail—something about a rebel splinter cell breaching the borders. It was a daring assault, bold and surgical, carried out with tech that shouldn't have existed in that part of the world. Not without outside help.

Tony's jaw tightened slightly as he read.

He'd met T'Chaka once. Geneva, five years ago. Sharp guy. Dignified. The kind of man who said more with a look than most politicians did with a filibuster. Tony had just turned fifteen. Howard was ecstatic to be able to speak with T'Chaka. They spoke like old friends.

And now he was gone. Just like Howard.

The elevator chimed behind him.

Obadiah Stane stepped into the room, his presence heavy even before he spoke. His tie was askew, his coat slung over one shoulder. He looked older than he had yesterday—like the hours had pressed in on him without mercy.

"You know, Tony," he said, forcing a dry, weary grin, "you are a hard man to contact."

Tony looked up from the newspaper, eyebrows raised.

"Whoa, Obie… you alright?"

Stane waved him off, though his movements were stiff.

"Didn't sleep last night. I'm fine." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "You have any of that sludge you call coffee left?"

Tony set the paper down on the glass table and gestured toward the fridge with his thumb.

"Help yourself. I was just catching up on the news."

Stane opened the fridge, pulled out the cold brew, and poured himself a tall glass without bothering to ask. He took a long drink, winced slightly, then turned back toward Tony.

"Did you bother to read the text messages I sent you?"

Tony glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom. One of the women was starting to stir, hair a mess of copper curls against a sea of sheets.

"I was a bit preoccupied," he said, deadpan.

Stane didn't even bother responding to that one. Just sighed and set the glass down a little too hard.

"So, mind giving me the summed-up version?" Tony asked, dropping back onto the edge of the couch like this was all one long, mildly irritating brunch.

Stane groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair opposite.

"Fine. You know… we agreed that Stark/Stane Industries is supposed to be a partnership. Correct?"

Tony raised his eyebrows, gesturing lazily toward the ceiling.

"I mean, the name would point to that."

"Then why wasn't I told," Stane snapped, "that Mayor Fisk wanted us to spend millions on improving his Task Force's gear?"

Tony didn't answer right away. He leaned back, one arm stretched across the top of the couch, the other draped over the back of his neck like he was trying to stay relaxed—but a tension had crept in beneath the surface. Subtle. Cold. Like static waiting to crackle.

"I didn't think it was worth waking you up over," Tony said finally. "Come on, what's the problem? You and I both want to keep New York safe, right?"

"Safe?" Stane scoffed. "What Fisk wants is nothing short of an army, Tony."

"We have people who can control the weather running around, Obie. Regular weapons wouldn't protect them for shit."

Stane stared at him, incredulous.

"You think throwing more guns at the problem's going to fix it?"

Tony stood, not abruptly, but with purpose. He walked toward the bar cart, fingers skimming the edge before pouring himself two fingers of whiskey—no ice. Morning or not, this conversation had earned it.

"What I think," he said as he turned, "is that waiting for the next 'freak' to tear through Brooklyn without prepping for it is suicide."

Obadiah didn't move.

"You sound just like Fisk."

Tony raised his glass in mock toast.

"And yet I have better taste in ties."

Stane wasn't amused.

"You know what his endgame is. He's not looking to protect the city—he's looking to own it. And we're just handing him the keys."

"No," Tony said, taking a sip. "We're selling him the keys. At markup."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't trying to be." He gestured around the room—at the schematics, the half-finished tech, the skyline just beyond the glass. "Obie, you think this place runs on good intentions? Stark Industries only survived my father's death because we kept the gears turning. Fisk is just another gear. Ugly, loud, but useful."

Obadiah stepped forward now, his voice lower, harder.

"And if he turns that gear against people like us? Against the wrong people?"

Tony's reply came without hesitation. Calm. Cold.

"Then we build something better."

There was a long beat of silence. Obadiah stared at him like he was seeing a blueprint he didn't recognize anymore.

"You really believe that, don't you?"

Tony set the glass down.

"I believe in control, Obie. If we don't make the future—we get buried by it."

"Control?" Obadiah repeated, incredulous. "What are you talking about? We're not gods, Tony."

He stepped closer, voice sharp with something more than just frustration—concern, maybe. Fear.

"Your father wouldn't approve of this. Hell, I don't approve of this."

Tony flinched—not visibly, not quite. But there was a flash behind his eyes, a tightening of the jaw that cut through the performance. He turned fast.

"Dad's not here now, is he?" he snapped.

The words hit the air like a slap, sharper than he meant, but not enough to take back.

His face flushed red for a split second—rage, or maybe regret. It didn't matter.

"You are family, Obie," Tony said, quieter now, but no less charged. "But do not try guilt-tripping me over what my father would have wanted."

Obadiah didn't back down. He stared at Tony, hard.

"I was there when he built the first prototype, remember? Project I.M. was about protection. Not escalation. Not domination."

Tony walked past him, pacing now, hands raking through his hair like he was trying to push the heat out of his skull.

"Things change," he said. "The world changed."

"And what—you're the one who gets to decide how it responds?"

Tony stopped, looking back at him.

"No. But I can decide who gets the tools."

Obadiah's voice dropped.

"And what if you're wrong, Tony?"

Tony stared at him for a long second.

"Then I'll be the one holding the detonator."

The silence that followed was heavy. Muted. Two men standing on either side of something broken, pretending it hadn't already split.

Obadiah exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. The weariness was back, stronger than before.

"We need to talk to the board."

Tony didn't blink.

"Then talk to them."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Obadiah shook his head.

"This isn't what Howard wanted."

Tony looked away, jaw tight again.

"Yeah," he muttered. "You've mentioned that."

Obadiah began pacing—slow, tight steps that carved a controlled circle around the room. His hands were restless. One tugged at the loosened knot of his tie, the other smoothing down the front of his wrinkled shirt like he could iron out his frustration with sheer force. He exhaled sharply, then dragged a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could press the headache out.

"Kid, don't be like this."

Tony didn't move. Just watched him from the other side of the room, arms draped open like a man inviting judgment.

"Be like what?" he asked, voice edged but casual. "Go ahead. Finish the thought."

Obadiah stopped mid-step, turned toward him, mouth parted like he had a dozen answers but none he wanted to say out loud. He looked at Tony not as a partner, not even as Howard's son—but as the boy he used to find asleep in the R lab, curled up next to half-finished inventions and tools too heavy for his hands.

Tony still had that look now. But it was buried under armor that hadn't been built yet. All sharp angles and hard truths.

"Like someone who's forgetting where he came from," Obadiah said finally.

Tony's smile came slow. Bitter.

"Where I came from burned up with my father's jet."

"That's not fair."

"No, it's accurate."

Obadiah pointed toward the wall display, where Howard Stark still stood frozen in sepia—a photograph surrounded by the legacy he left behind.

"You came from him. From that. You don't get to rewrite what this company is supposed to be just because you're scared."

Tony's jaw tensed.

"I'm not scared."

"You're always scared," Obadiah said quietly. "You're just better at hiding it now."

That landed.

Tony stepped forward, arms lowering, face hardening as the distance between them vanished.

"I'm building something that can protect people from the things we can't control," he said. "If I have to burn money to do so, then why not?"

Obadiah held his ground.

"And who protects them from you?"

Tony didn't answer.

Obadiah's eyes widened. It wasn't theatrical—it was instinctive, like something just clicked in his head and there wasn't enough room to pretend otherwise.

"Oh my God…" he breathed, voice low. "You've been working on the project in secret, haven't you?"

Tony didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. He just shrugged—cool and detached, like the truth was already a foregone conclusion.

"I might have been," he said. "What difference does it make?"

He turned back toward the window, hands in the pockets of his robe, silhouette framed by the morning sun and the jagged skyline beyond.

"It's my legacy, Obie. I just want to see it through."

Obadiah didn't respond at first. He stood frozen, still trying to wrap his head around it. His shoulders rose as he took a breath, like he was trying to calm a storm that had just pulled up an anchor inside his chest.

"No…" he said finally. "That's not it."

Tony glanced over his shoulder.

Obadiah shook his head, stepping forward again—his voice tightening, like the pieces were still falling into place faster than he wanted them to.

"I can see it in your eyes."

Tony turned fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"What exactly do you think you're seeing, Obie?"

"A man who's not building something to protect the world…" Obadiah's voice dropped, the words hanging heavy between them, "but to control it."

He took another step closer.

"This isn't about carrying on Howard's legacy. It's about rewriting it. You want to prove that you're smarter. Stronger. More capable than he ever was."

Tony's expression didn't change. But his silence was louder than any denial.

"And you think if you build something big enough—loud enough—powerful enough, the world'll finally look at you and see more than his shadow."

Obadiah's tone wasn't cruel. It was tired. Disappointed in a way only family could be.

"You're not doing this for the world, Tony. You're doing it for yourself."

Tony stood there for a moment. Still. Measured.

Then he gave a half-smile—crooked, bitter.

"Maybe I am."

The silence between them stretched like wire—pulled taut, ready to snap.

Behind them, movement.

The two women from Tony's bed drifted silently into the living room, now fully dressed, their smiles gone and replaced by something more subdued. They didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. They just exchanged a glance, grabbed their shoes, and left the penthouse with the quiet understanding of people who'd seen this kind of tension before.

Tony didn't stop them. He didn't even look at them for long. Just watched the door shut behind them… then turned away.

His jaw was tight now. A muscle feathered in his cheek as he walked across the room, bare feet padding softly against the polished floor. He stopped in front of the wall display—the one lit with the history that never quite stopped following him.

There, behind the glass, sat the original plaque and photo from Project I.M.—a grainy black-and-white snapshot of Howard Stark, arms crossed, standing proudly beside the hulking first-gen armor. The prototype that had never made it past the concept phase. All steel and blunt force, designed for durability, not grace.

Tony stared at it like he was staring at a memory too vivid to blink through.

"Dad stopped because he felt it was too dangerous," he said quietly. "But he told me something before he left for Latveria."

Obadiah stood there, silent.

"He said I'd be the one to finish what he couldn't."

Tony reached out and rested his fingers lightly against the edge of the glass. It was warm from the sunlight, but he looked like he didn't feel it.

"He didn't see it as a weapon," Obadiah said.

Tony didn't turn around.

"Neither do I," he said. "I see it as a tool. For a better future."

There was no smugness in his tone. No performative edge. Just conviction. Bone-deep, unshakable.

Obadiah exhaled slowly. He didn't try to hide the look on his face—part disbelief, part fear.

"You really believe that, don't you?"

Tony finally turned to look at him.

"Every day."

Obadiah shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"Tony… what are you expecting to come from this?"

Tony didn't answer immediately. He just looked out over the city again. His reflection hovered in the glass—tall, alone, backlit by the morning sun that made everything look golden, even the mistakes.

"Do you want to see?" he asked softly.

Obadiah hesitated.

"Tony—"

But Tony was already moving.

He crossed the room to his desk, fingers moving with practiced ease across the biometric locks. A soft click—and then the drawer opened, revealing a matte-black case with reinforced edges and no labels. He flipped it open.

Inside sat the repulsor prototype.

Sleeker than the last one Obadiah had seen—refined. The wiring had been tucked away. The casing was contoured, clean, the pulse core glowing with a faint, steady blue-white hum. Tony lifted it carefully, like it meant something more than just metal.

"I've managed to get some of the original kinks out of the tech," Tony said as he slid it onto his arm. "No more feedback loops. Improved heat dissipation. Battery life's still trash, but that's part of the fun."

Obadiah just stared.

"I think it's ready for trials," Tony added. Then he turned, already walking toward the private elevator. "Come on."

"Tony…" Obadiah started.

But the look in his eyes stopped him. It was drive.

Obadiah didn't want to follow. He knew that feeling in his gut. But he stepped forward anyway.

The elevator dropped them twenty floors in silence.

The doors opened to a lab that could've doubled as a miniature city. A cathedral of circuitry and glass and hydraulic scaffolding. Massive screens blinked to life as they entered. A bank of robotic arms clicked into standby. The air smelled faintly of ozone and metal shavings.

Tony walked straight to the center of the space, where the framework of an exo-suit hung from a reinforced rig—suspended like some mechanical ribcage waiting for flesh. It wasn't armor in the traditional sense. Not yet. Just a skeletal frame of reinforced alloy, grafted with muscle-threaded wiring and pressure sensors. But in the center of the chest plate, embedded with deliberate reverence, was the arc reactor.

Tony stepped into it without hesitation. The frame adjusted, arms whirring to life as they clicked into place around his limbs. The repulsor linked to the system with a satisfying chirp, syncing instantly. The light in the arc reactor pulsed brighter in response.

He exhaled slowly.

"JARVIS," Tony said. "Begin stabilization protocols."

"Affirmative, sir. Initiating phase one."

The suit shifted, responding to his posture, syncing with each breath.

Obadiah took a step forward, voice low.

"You put the arc reactor in your chest rig?"

Tony nodded.

"It's the cleanest power solution I've found. Self-sustaining. Scalable. Portable."

"And dangerous."

Tony didn't flinch.

"It's the future."

He raised his hand. The repulsor flared like a sun caged in his palm.

Obadiah wasn't looking at the light. He was looking at the man behind it. And for the first time, he couldn't tell which was wearing the other.

Tony stepped forward, the exo-suit adjusting fluidly with each movement. The servo motors responded like extensions of his own muscles, legs moving without resistance, weight distributing naturally across the reinforced floor plates.

Ahead of him stood a cluster of mannequin targets—lined up in staggered formation, each one human-sized, armored with various types of ballistic plating. They'd clearly been set up for this moment. Some were spray-painted with crudely drawn frowny faces. One wore a Mets cap.

Obadiah didn't move as Tony raised his arm.

"You sure this is safe?" he muttered.

"Define safe," Tony muttered.

And then, with a small grin…

FWHRRMMM.

The repulsor ignited with a piercing blast of blue energy, punching clean through the first mannequin's chest. It dropped instantly, plastic torso sizzling with a charred black ring dead-center. Another shot followed—then another. One by one, the mannequins fell, scorched at the point of impact, smoking slightly as they hit the floor in a heap of melted plastic and slumped limbs.

Tony whooped.

"Yes!" he shouted, nearly stumbling from excitement as the rig compensated. He turned toward Obadiah, grinning wide. "Did you see that? Dead center! All of them! I knew it was ready!"

Tony was still grinning as the last target crumpled with a satisfying thunk. The smell of scorched plastic hung in the air, sweet and acrid, like the ghost of victory on the tongue.

He flexed his fingers again, watching the repulsor fade from blinding to dim, still humming with restrained energy. His heart was racing. His mind buzzing. He turned on his heel, practically electric.

"Did you see that? Obie, come on—tell me that wasn't incredible."

Obadiah… wasn't smiling.

He stood stiff at the lab's edge, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Tony's smile faltered, his eyes scanning Obadiah's face like he'd missed something.

"What?" he said, brow furrowing. "I thought you'd be happy about this."

The echo of his own voice hung in the lab, bouncing back empty.

"I am happy, Tony…" Obadiah's voice was careful. He ran a hand down his face, then let it rest against the back of his neck. His fingers lingered there, like the weight of the moment had settled right between his shoulders. "But I need to know… does Fisk know about this?"

Tony blinked.

"What?"

"This." Obadiah motioned to the exo-suit. "The gear Fisk wants—is it involving this? This level of firepower?"

"No," Tony said immediately. "Different scope. Different budget. This is for us."

Obadiah's frown deepened, but before he could push, Tony stepped forward, voice gaining momentum like a train cresting a hill.

"But we could end up showing this off," he added, excitement bleeding back in. "At the expo in a few months. Just imagine it, Obie—'Stark/Stane Industries Presents: The Future of Integrated Defense.' You and me standing on that stage, suit fully functional, running a live demo. Press losing their minds."

His voice lifted with that same spark.

"A legitimate prototype. We'd dominate the headlines. We'd bury every competitor."

But Obadiah still wasn't smiling.

He was watching the suit—and the man in it—like he'd just seen a fault line form beneath their feet.

"Why would you want to market this as a weapon?" Obadiah asked, his voice low and tight.

Tony scoffed.

"Obie, did you not just hear me? It's for defense. Not a weapon."

Obadiah shook his head.

"You and I both know that's a marketing line. The greatest defense is a good offense, and this? This would be a hell of an offense in the wrong hands."

Tony stepped forward, face tightening.

"This can help people." He gestured to the gauntlet. Then to the arc reactor. "The arc reactor could power exo-limbs. Give mobility back. Dignity. No more hauling tanks and dragging wires through disaster zones. This isn't about combat. This is about giving people a future."

His voice caught—not yelling, but urgent.

"This is a second chance."

Obadiah looked at the suit, then the charred mannequins—one of which still twitched faintly, like it had died reaching.

"You say that now," he said softly. "But upstairs, you made it sound like you were doing this for yourself."

Tony turned, a flicker of defiance already rising behind his eyes.

"I'm doing this to make my mark on the world, Obie. That's what everyone wants. To matter. To be remembered."

Obadiah took a step closer, his expression folding in on itself, halfway between concern and disbelief.

"Is that really the way you see this?"

"How else am I supposed to see it?" Tony asked. "Look at what we're building—"

Obadiah looked at the mannequins again, at the smoke still trailing up the lab walls. "You're creating a mobile weapon of mass destruction. That's what I'm seeing."

Tony's eyes widened, face flushing with disbelief.

"Excuse me?" he said, voice cracking slightly. "I would never—"

"Bullshit!" Obadiah roared, his temper boiling over. "We sell weapons. That's what Stark Industries was before I stepped in to help carry your father's work forward. We were the world's largest arms dealer! You want to talk legacy? This is our legacy!"

He stormed forward, grabbing Tony's wrist and yanking it up between them, forcing the repulsor into view.

"This isn't hope. It's a palm-mounted energy cannon."

Tony jerked his arm back.

"You don't get it, Obie. You never did. My father wanted to protect the world. I'm just the one willing to make sure it actually happens."

They stood in silence for a moment, only the arc reactor pulsing between them.

"I want you to look me in the eye," he said, voice steady but low, like someone bracing for a truth he already knew. "And tell me you don't see this for what it really is."

Tony stood still, jaw tight, teeth grinding behind a closed mouth. His eyes were glassy with heat—somewhere between fury and shame.

Obadiah softened—just a little.

"Tony…" he said, quieter now. "If you meant a single word about this being used to help people… you'd know that this isn't the way."

Tony's eyes finally flicked up, staring hard. But there was something tired in them now. Like a storm pulling back out to sea.

"Then what is?" he said, and it wasn't defiant this time. It was honest and bitter. "Tell me, Obie. What is the way? Because all I ever hear is what I shouldn't do. What I can't build. What line I'm crossing. But no one ever tells me where the line is."

Tony walked slowly back to his workstation, boots echoing dully across the lab floor. The hum of the arc reactor was louder now, more noticeable in the quiet—like a heartbeat that wasn't his.

He reached the console and pressed both hands flat against the edge, head bowed slightly. For a moment, he didn't say anything.

Then, quietly—almost to himself:

"I just want to help."

His fingers curled against the metal, his voice tightening with it.

"War is how we advance our technology… always has been. We innovate when we're scared. When we're forced to. The breakthroughs we've made in war—they help people back home."

He looked up at the monitors.

"Why should this be any different? The end justifies the means, right?"

His voice was empty now—hollow.

"It's not that I disagree with you," Obadiah sighed, fatigue in every word. "We're partners, Tony. If you'd told me all of this… if you hadn't left me in the dark, working backroom deals with Fisk, building this behind my back… we wouldn't be standing here like this."

Tony turned slowly.

"I didn't agree to anything with him," he said flatly. "I told him I would discuss it with you."

Obadiah blinked.

"You did?"

"Of course I did. What do you take me for?"

Obadiah's mouth opened, but he didn't have an answer. Not one that didn't sound worse out loud.

"Why didn't you just say that?" he asked instead.

Tony shrugged, the movement stiff with restrained annoyance.

"Well, I can't say that you gave me the chance. You walked in here already sure I'd betrayed you."

He looked up, voice steady but quiet. "Like I said… everything I do is because I want a better future. Fisk might not be the best man around. But he's a lot better than the alternatives right now. If someone's going to shape the tech we've built… better it be us than someone who doesn't care where it lands."

He paused. Then added, with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes:

"But I would never—ever—go behind your back."

Obadiah studied him. Long enough that it almost felt like silence had won. But Tony shifted again, gesturing toward the exo-suit.

"As for keeping you in the dark about this?" he said, voice lighter now, almost hopeful. "I was… trying to surprise you."

Obadiah blinked.

"Surprise me?"

"You were there from the beginning," Tony continued, stepping closer. "I figured if I could get a stable prototype mocked up… something real… you'd be excited. But now you're looking at me like I'm some kind of madman waiting to snap."

Obadiah's mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak for a second. Just exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw like he could smooth the worry out of his face by force.

"I'm looking at you like someone I care about," he said finally, "-who's walking too close to a cliff."

He glanced toward the suit again, then back to Tony.

"You're brilliant, kid. You always have been. But brilliance without brakes?" He tapped a finger against his temple. "That's how we lose control."

Tony didn't flinch, but the lines around his eyes tightened.

"I don't think you're a madman, Tony. I think you're trying to outrun a ghost. Maybe more than one."

"I told you already—" Tony began, his voice rising.

"I know, I know…" Obadiah cut in, holding up a hand. "You just want to help. But kid, you're not helping your case. You've been different since that attack in Afghanistan."

Tony went still.

The breath left him sharp, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.

"Obie," he said after a moment, his voice lower now. "The people that tried to take me… I was powerless to stop them."

He paused, swallowing.

"I'd never felt that kind of helplessness before."

"So that's why you want to finish the project? Because you felt hopeless?" Obadiah asked. It came out with more bite than he meant. A snap of disbelief dressed up as concern.

Tony's head turned, slowly.

"Careful," he said, too calm. "That sounded a little like mockery."

"I didn't mean it like that," Obadiah said quickly. "I just—God, Tony, you're building a damn war machine because you had a panic attack in a desert—"

Tony stepped forward, suddenly.

"No," he snapped. "I'm building a solution. Because the people who tried to take me—they're still out there. And you know what scares me more than being captured again? Letting them do it to someone else. Letting them win."

"Tony," Obadiah said, his voice low now. "You're not thinking straight."

"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in my life!"

Tony slammed his hand against the table.

"You don't get it," he said, turning back. "I've seen what they're capable of. I've seen what happens when we wait."

Obadiah stepped forward, calmer than he felt.

"You're making yourself a weapon."

Tony's mouth twisted.

"I'm making myself a shield."

"For who?" Obadiah shot back. "The city? The company? Or is it just so you can look in the mirror and not feel like a failure?"

That hit harder than either of them expected.

Tony didn't answer.

"You can't carry the weight of the world just to erase your guilt, Tony."

Tony stepped up to him, chest nearly touching—the hum of the arc reactor loud now in the silence between them.

"You think this is about guilt?"

"I think you're scared. And you don't know what to do with it."

Tony's fist twitched.

"You know what I see?" he said, voice cold now. "I see someone who stopped believing. You and Dad. When it got hard, you walked away."

"Because we knew how dangerous it could be," Obadiah snapped. "Damn it, Tony—this isn't what he wanted."

Tony's voice was low, bitter.

"Dad's not here to say otherwise."

"He trusted me to keep you from doing something reckless."

"Then maybe you should've done a better job."

The heat from the repulsor surged. A flicker of unstable energy hissed in the air.

The slightest twitch of his hand and—

FWHRRMMM.

The blast hit Obadiah square in the chest. He was sent flying backward, his body crashing through the high-rise window with a spray of safety glass and sunlit dust. For a fraction of a second, Tony saw the look on his face. It wasn't shock, anger, or anything that Tony could have handled in the moment. All he saw was betrayal.

And then he was gone.

Tony couldn't move. The sound of the repulsor faded in his ears, replaced only by the rush of blood and disbelief. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the arc reactor's hum now sickeningly loud in the hollow room.

"No," he whispered.

He stumbled forward. Shards of glass crunched beneath his bare feet. Wind tore through the breach in the building.

"Obie—" His voice cracked.

Far, far below, sirens were already starting to stir.

He looked out through the shattered window, and for the first time since Afghanistan, he didn't feel powerful. He felt empty.

Shaking, he stripped off the exo-suit and let it fall to the floor.

Standing at the edge, alone, he whispered:

"I-I…"

The city breathed beneath him. Wind rushed through the broken window. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, still blind to what had happened here. The hum of the arc reactor was the only thing steady.

Behind him, the lab lights dimmed slightly, sensors falling into passive standby.

Then:

"Sir?" JARVIS's voice was soft.

But Tony didn't answer.

He didn't even hear him.

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:57:21+0000

I don't know why, but for some reason, the smell of dry-erase marker hits me before the class even starts—sharp, chemical, clinging to the inside of my nose. It mixes with someone's overly sweet body spray a few rows over and the faint reek of cafeteria eggs still stuck to someone's hoodie. The window's cracked, but it's doing a piss-poor job of airing the place out.

I sit at my desk, trying to breathe evenly through my mouth, but it doesn't help much.

The bell hasn't rung yet, but students are already drifting in—footsteps thudding against the floor in uneven, unpredictable rhythms. Sneakers squeak. A backpack zipper screeches open. Someone drops their binder too close behind me and I jolt slightly. Laughter breaks out across the room, loud and unfiltered, as if someone just said the funniest thing on Earth and we all needed to hear it.

The noise doesn't stop. It just piles on. One layer at a time.

Larson enters, peeling the cap off a marker with that awful pop, and I wince at the sound. He scribbles something on the whiteboard, the tip squeaking like it's struggling to keep up. Somewhere near the window, a fly is buzzing—just one—but it's persistent. I can't even see it, but I can hear it. High, shrill, constant.

Harry's tapping his pencil on the edge of his notebook. Not fast—just steady enough that it starts syncing up with the throb behind my eyes. I want to ask him to stop. I want to say something, but the words aren't forming right. My stomach's already knotted, and the overstimulation is grinding down my focus like sandpaper.

Then Harry speaks.

It's low. Easy. Familiar.

That's what cuts through the noise.

"You alright?"

It's not even loaded—just a check-in. But it's enough to give me something to hold onto.

I take a breath, let it out slowly, and manage to focus on just him. His voice, not the fly. Not the marker. Not the chaos happening just beyond the edge of my vision.

"Yeah," I say. It doesn't sound convincing.

I wait a beat longer, then ask—voice a little tighter than I'd like, but steady enough:

"So… did your dad say where he went last night?"

Harry lets out a breath through his nose, still half-focused on the corner of his notebook where he's carving some lazy spiral into the paper.

"Nope. Just told me it was business and not to wait up."

His tone is flat, but there's something underneath it. Like the words themselves don't sit right in his mouth.

"Is that normal for him?" I ask.

Harry shrugs. Doesn't look up.

"I mean, he's not exactly the 'text me when you get there' type. But he usually says something. At least lets someone know."

He glances at me now, and I can tell it's been bothering him. There's a tension in his jaw, that crease between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

"Something's still off," he mutters. "He looked… I don't know. Pale. Shaky, almost. Like he hadn't slept. I tried talking to him and he just… brushed me off."

I nod slowly, trying to hide the way my own skin is crawling.

"You think he's mad about something?" I ask.

"Maybe." Harry frowns. "Or maybe he's not mad at all. Just… somewhere else. Mentally, I mean. It's like he's not really in the room with me anymore."

That hits harder than I expect. I've seen people do that. Slip behind their own eyes. Go somewhere quieter, darker, because they can't—or won't—say what's happening.

"You ever seen him like that before?" I ask quietly.

Harry hesitates, then shakes his head.

"Not like this."

The bell rings. A fresh wave of noise cuts through the air—chairs scraping back, doors slamming open, the sound of someone dragging their feet down the hall like they're trying to tear a hole in the floor.

Neither of us moves.

"Let me know if anything changes," I say under my breath.

Harry nods, but there's something hollow in the motion.

"Yeah. I will."

The lesson starts, but it's like I'm not in the room anymore.

Larson's voice is going on about cells and mitosis or maybe how to dissect a frog—I can't really tell. It all starts blending together into one long, droning hum that refuses to stay in the background. My eyes track his movements automatically, but none of it sticks.

My fingers are digging into the grain of the desk without me realizing it. There's a groove running down the wood from years of people carving stupid little shapes or writing "help me" like that would magically free them from sophomore bio. I press my thumb into one of the deeper notches and it suddenly feels like I can feel every splinter. Every microscopic ridge in the wood's surface. It's not just texture—it's like I'm reading the damn desk like braille, and it's screaming at me.

The oscillating fan in the corner clicks once. Then again. And again. A rhythmic rattle like it's been unbalanced for years and no one's ever fixed it. My head jerks toward it on instinct, and I don't even realize I've turned until Harry gives me a weird glance.

The fluorescent lights above flicker slightly. Once. Twice. And then it's like I can hear them. That soft, electric buzz that normally fades into the white noise of a classroom? Yeah, not anymore. It's sharp. Piercing. There. Like a mosquito whining inside my skull.

My hands start to shake.

The AC kicks on and I feel every molecule of cold air hit my skin like a goddamn needle. Someone coughs in the back. Another kid laughs under their breath. Someone's chair squeaks. The fly is still going. Still buzzing. Still there.

I can't focus.

I can't breathe.

My stomach twists so hard it feels like it's trying to crawl up my throat. I press a palm to my abdomen, then quickly raise my hand.

"Mr. Larson," I manage, my voice barely audible. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

He barely glances up.

"Yeah, yeah. Take the pass."

I'm up before he even finishes, grabbing the grimy laminated pass off the hook near the door and making a beeline for the hallway. The second I'm out, I move fast—too fast. I'm already pushing the bathroom door open with more force than necessary, the hinges creaking behind me.

I barely make it to the toilet.

Then it hits.

Hard.

My knees hit tile and I vomit like my body's just done pretending to keep it together. There's nothing graceful about it. No cinematic wipe of the mouth or distant stare. I'm just there, head practically in the bowl, coughing and retching like my stomach's trying to exorcise something.

Even with the door shut, I swear I can still hear that fly. Or maybe it's just in my head now. Either way, it's not leaving.

Once I finally stop—once I'm sure there's nothing left—I pull myself up on shaky legs and hit the flush.

I don't look at the mirror.

I won't look.

Instead, I plant both hands on the edge of the sink and stare down at the porcelain. My palms are slick with sweat. My chest rises and falls like I just ran a hundred yards uphill in a thunderstorm. Everything's heavy. My head. My limbs. My thoughts.

My thoughts especially.

They won't stop.

They're moving at a thousand miles per hour—flashes of light, the screeching of tires, the car accident…

Shapes—outlines I recognize before I can name them. Ben. May. Norman.

Broken bones.

The wolf necklace swinging from my neck.

Ben yelling my name.

Images of my old family—faces I'll never see again except like this, upside-down, flickering, burned into the backs of my eyelids.

Myself—sitting on the ceiling.

And then MJ.

That look in her eyes.

It's immediately replaced by the way Norman smiled in that dream—

And then I hear it… a laugh in the back of my head like a ghost.

It's not Norman's voice, exactly. So much darker…

"You're different now, Peter…"

It's oily and gleeful and wrong.

"You're not the same boy I knew… are you even Peter Parker?"

"SHUT UP!"

The words rip out of me before I even register saying them. My right hand slams forward into the wall beside the mirror.

There's a crack. Like a tree splitting down the center. Dust rains from the wall, coating my wrist, and I'm staring at a crater in the tile—about three inches deep. My fist is embedded in the concrete.

Not a hairline fracture. Not a dent.

A full-on crater.

My hand pulls back on instinct, trembling, dust trailing off my knuckles. No blood. No bruises. No broken skin. Just powdered grout clinging to my fingers like chalk.

I stumble back a half step, staring at the wall.

That wasn't even hard. That wasn't even close to trying.

I didn't rear back. I didn't put my body into it. That was a reflex. And I still punched through solid concrete like it was wet plaster.

A cold sweat prickles down my spine. My breath hitches.

It's not just nausea anymore. It's not even fear in the traditional sense. This is something else.

Like my body is rebelling. Not against danger—but against me.

I shake, hands still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Every sound from earlier—the lights, the fly, the fan—it's gone. The world's suddenly dead silent, like I've stepped into a sensory deprivation chamber. There's no noise. No movement. Just my heartbeat, and even that's quiet.

For the first time in days, my thoughts stop spinning.

And now that I'm not running from it… I can feel just how strong I've become.

And it terrifies me.

Because if I can do that without trying—without even thinking—what happens if I snap at the wrong moment? What happens if I lose control? What happens if someone pisses me off in the hallway and I react just a second too fast?

That laughter echoes manically as though it's won. That somehow, it got what it wanted in the end.

And for a second—just a second—I swear the crack in the tile looks like a grin.

I swallow thickly. My throat suddenly feels dry like I've been screaming for hours.

I rinse my hands under cold water, scrubbing the dust off my knuckles like it'll make me feel normal again. Then I dry them. Wipe my face. Avoid the mirror again.

And then I leave the bathroom like nothing happened.

Because the truth is—if anyone finds out what I just did… I don't even know what I would say.

"You feel it, don't you? What you really are..."

Shut up. Just shut up… please.

"You want to be a hero… yet you can't even stand up to the voice in your head? Poor little Peter…"

My jaw clenches. Just once. Like that part of me—the part that heard it—wants to answer back.

"You don't have to be afraid of what you are. You just have to stop pretending you're not…"

I keep walking. One step. Then another. Back to class like nothing's wrong. Like my stomach didn't just empty itself onto the bathroom floor. Like I didn't just punch a crater into the wall. Like I don't still feel that whisper curling around my spine like smoke.

"Stop pretending, Peter… you're not meant to be a hero. You're just a coward. Just admit it."

No.

That word doesn't leave my mouth, but it takes shape in my head—solid. Heavy. Like a weight I can finally lift.

No.

I'm not just listening anymore. I'm pushing back. Even if it's small. Even if it's barely more than a whisper in the dark.

This thing in my head—it wants me to flinch. To doubt. To fold in on myself and call it survival.

But I know what that looks like.

I lived that way for years.

And I'm not doing it again.

It doesn't matter if I'm scared. Doesn't matter if the voice keeps talking. Doesn't matter if I don't know what I am yet.

What matters is I'm still walking.

And I'm not stopping.

I step back into the classroom. The fluorescent lights still hum. The fan still ticks. Larson is still droning on at the front like he's being paid by the syllable. But the world doesn't feel quite as sharp this time.

Harry looks up when I slide back into my seat.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," I say, giving a short nod. "Just needed to get some air. I'm better now."

He watches me a second longer, like he's still deciding whether to believe it. Then he nods.

"Okay… You need anything?"

"Yeah." I force a small smile—thin, uneven, but it's the best I've got. "I need the notes on what I missed."

"You got it."

I take the paper from him and stare at the first line, trying to focus.

My hands are steady now.

But I don't know how long that'll last.

We didn't even make it halfway to the cafeteria before Harry nodded toward the common room.

"Let's chill in there. Gwen's in Chem anyway."

I didn't argue. I was more interested in quiet than lunch. My tray barely had anything on it—an apple, a chocolate milk, and a sad slice of something that swore it used to be pizza. I wasn't exactly in a social mood.

The common room's dimmer. Fewer people. The couches all have that slightly-saggy look like they were dragged here from the teacher's lounge a decade ago, and one of the vending machines is perpetually blinking an error code that no one's fixed. Still, it's calm. Some juniors were sitting on the floor comparing notes, and across the room, Flash and Kong were halfway through a foosball match that sounded like it'd been going since the Industrial Revolution.

I dropped into the far couch with a low exhale, tray balanced on my knees. Harry sat beside me and immediately took out his phone—probably already texting Gwen something dumb.

That's when I saw it.

The TV in the corner wasn't loud, but the graphics were enough.

BREAKING NEWS: Obadiah Stane Pronounced Dead in Stark Tower Incident

I froze. The milk carton almost slid off my tray. A familiar face was plastered on the screen—a corporate photo, smile tight, suit clean, like every press release headshot ever taken.

Harry noticed me staring and looked up.

"…Wait. That's—no way." He leaned forward. "Holy crap. That's Stane."

Neither of us spoke for a second.

The reporter's voice was low and rehearsed. Calm. All business.

"Stane, the co-founder of Stark/Stane Industries, was reportedly killed this morning during an early-stage technology test at Stark Tower. Sources confirm it was a tragic accident. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but were unable to revive him. No foul play is suspected."

An accident.

I just stared at the screen. My heart wasn't racing exactly, but it felt like it should be. It felt like something had cracked a little sideways inside my skull.

I didn't know the guy, but… I did.

I mean—I knew him. Not personally. But I'd watched his villain arc. I knew the blueprint. The Iron Monger. The suit. The betrayal. The factory floor showdown.

Now?

Now he was just dead.

No suit. No final confrontation. Just… an accident.

My stomach turned slowly, not because it made me sad—but because this was the first time I felt genuinely lost.

This wasn't the MCU. I never expected it to be. But I'd been telling myself that I sort of knew the general shape of things. That enough threads would stay the same to follow the pattern. Norman wasn't evil yet—but hey, maybe one day. Fisk was Mayor—but I'd seen worse. MJ and I met earlier than expected—but that was manageable.

This, though?

This was new. This wasn't a curveball. This was the pitcher throwing the ball into the stands and walking off the mound.

"Dude," Harry muttered. "That's insane. My dad's gonna be freaking out. They were in meetings all week."

I nodded faintly, but I couldn't take my eyes off the screen.

Obadiah Stane. Dead.

No Iron Monger.

So what else was different?

"Hey." Harry bumped my shoulder lightly. "You alright?"

I blinked. Pulled back from the spiral.

"Yeah," I said. My voice came out flatter than I meant it to. "Just… wasn't expecting to see that today."

He looked at me for a second like he wasn't totally buying it, but didn't push.

From across the hall, Flash whooped loud enough to draw the whole room's attention.

"Goal! That's five to two, Kong! You're getting destroyed, man!"

Kong shouted back something about cheating and gravity and how the table was slanted.

In the back of my head, that fucking voice was creeping its way back to the front.

"You're not the only one that's changing..."

That thing is going to make me punch something by the end of the day, I can feel it.

God, I miss my PS5. At least I could've relaxed with that. Blown off some steam, killed some zombies on COD or something.

This blows. I can't shoot a voice in my head. Then again, it's just my own doubt creeping in. I can handle it. I just need the right outlet, something to let it out before it drags me under.

For now, I just sit there, letting the noise of the room cover the noise in my head.

I push through the front doors like I've just come out of a war zone, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. My bag's slung half-on, one strap barely hanging off my shoulder, and my legs feel like lead. I'm not even sure if it's from the physical exertion or just… existing.

Harry's beside me, hands in his pocket, with that usual casual strut like he's in some photoshoot. He's mid-sentence about something—but I'm not able to give enough of a shit to bother paying attention. I might as well be in my own little world at this point.

My head is fuzzy, so many thoughts swirling in it that focusing on what's in front of me is a challenge of its own. It takes Harry nudging me with his elbow for me to even give him the time of day.

"Dude," he says under his breath, tipping his chin forward.

I follow his gaze and—yep. There's MJ, standing by the front gate, arms crossed loosely over her chest, looking like she's been waiting just long enough to make it look casual. She's… she's got her hair down. I barely recognize her, despite the radiant red hair you only see in cartoons or comic books. It's—it's quite mesmerizing to be honest.

Apparently, I'm not the only one that's taken note of that based on the whistle Harry lets out.

"Go get your girl, man."

"Shut up…" I roll my eyes, shouldering my bag properly. "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, yeah." He waves me off, walking backward for a few steps. "Tell her I said hey."

"Not happening."

I turn back toward MJ, who's giving me a look of her own now—eyebrows raised, arms still crossed, head tilted just enough to say she definitely noticed whatever that was.

"Did I miss something?" she asks as I reach her.

I shake my head, brushing it off.

"No. Harry's just… being Harry."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it, letting me fall into step beside her as we head down the sidewalk together.

The school behind us starts to fade into the background, the noise of students scattering in every direction like we're all just trying to outrun something.

After a minute, she glances over.

"So," she says, keeping it casual, "was today any easier?"

I let out a small chuckle, but it comes out wrong. Stiff. Like my body forgot how to laugh and is just mimicking it by sound alone.

"Yep."

She picks up on it immediately

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I lie, my eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.

She doesn't say anything at first, just walks a little slower. I can feel her glance my way again, but I keep looking forward. The wind kicks up a bit—cooler than earlier—and I focus on the rustling of leaves instead of the static in my skull.

We walk in silence for another block or so before she speaks again.

"…Is it me?" she asks, voice quiet. "Did I do something?"

That gets me. I stop mid-step, turning just enough to see her face. There's nothing accusatory there—just this kind of hesitant vulnerability that stings a little. Like she's not used to being unsure.

"No," I say too fast. Too flat. My throat tightens.

I clear it. Try again.

"No. You didn't do anything. You were…" I pause, trying to find the words without sounding like a complete dweeb. "Lately, you're one of the few things that feel right… or normal."

Ew, even I'm cringing over what I said.

Silence fills the air between us, and I can practically feel the breath catch in my throat. She looks at me for a second longer than she probably meant to, and then… her expression shifts, just slightly. Her eyes soften around the edges, like whatever tension she had about my distance deflated a little.

Her cheeks get this red tint to them. Shit, is she blushing right now? Oh you're kidding me, right?

And then, without a word, she bumps her shoulder gently into mine.

It's not much, barely more than a nudge. But it says more than most people ever do with full sentences.

We keep walking.

The breeze cuts through again, and for a moment I just listen—to the soft thud of our sneakers on the pavement, the rustle of leaves clinging to trees that probably won't hold on much longer, and the way the city always hums with life even when the people in it feel dead on their feet.

I glance over at her. She's watching the sidewalk in front of us, a little wrinkle between her brows like she's still thinking. Her hair shifts with the wind, strands catching the sun in that surreal red-gold way that feels like it belongs in a movie, not real life.

I don't say anything. I just keep moving beside her, and I let the silence stretch—not because I don't want to talk, but because it's nice not having to fill every second with noise.

Except…

My brain isn't really letting me off the hook today.

It's buzzing with static again. A thousand different signals on top of each other, no volume control. Norman's sudden absence last night. The way Harry looked when he talked about it. Obadiah Stane is dead. That's a sentence I haven't even processed yet.

The Iron Monger is dead, and I don't think he ever donned the suit. That's going to take some time to get used to.

My fingers twitch around the strap of my backpack.

Let's face it. I'm supposed to be keeping up with Geometry and everything else… and I'm stuck on the death of Iron Man's potential villain. Then again, nothing about my situation is normal, even by Marvel standards.

Died, resurrected into Peter's body, developing super powers, existential crisis, going through puberty again… and on top of it my dumb ass is already having second thoughts about what I want to do.

Despite it all, I do want to help people, but what good is that going to do if I can't even help myself? If my doubts are going to hold me back, how the hell am I supposed to help people?

I sigh—quiet, but heavy. MJ thinks I'm acting weird because of how things have been the last twenty-four hours between us. While she's partially right, that's really not the case overall. She's just one little piece of the puzzle.

"I mean it…" I say, barely louder than the wind. "It's not you, MJ."=

She turns toward me a little, head tilted again, hair catching sunlight again, every time it moves like it's trying to hypnotize me.

"It's just—" I exhale again, trying to wrangle the words that don't want to come out. "I feel like I'm drowning right now. Three weeks gone, and I'm expected to catch up. I don't even know what I missed, or what I'm supposed to even know for that matter."

My hand gestures vaguely as I speak, like motion can help untangle the thought.

"I've got tests, homework, and people that I'm trying to figure out because I feel out of place. Like I'm pretending really well, but any second someone's going to realize I don't belong here."

That last bit comes out faster than I mean it to.

My throat tightens.

"My brain just won't shut up. It's... it's a lot. All at once."

We stop at a crosswalk. The light hasn't changed yet, and there's no traffic, but I don't move. I just… stand there. Backpack hanging low on one shoulder, heart pounding a little harder than it should be from just talking.

For a second, I wish I had my mask on—not the Spider-Man one, the metaphorical one. The one that lets me hide all this.

Then—her hand brushes against mine. My heart practically skips a beat. Was she trying to take my hand, or was it by accident? As nice as that sounds, I'm still not trying to put myself in that position.

"You don't have to explain it," MJ says, voice soft. "But… thanks for telling me."

I look at her. She's not smiling, but there's something in her eyes—like she gets it.

We walk again, and for a few seconds, I almost convince myself things are okay. Just two kids walking home after school. Just noise and sunlight and—

Smoke.

It hits me all at once—thick and acrid, too sharp to be a backyard grill, too heavy to ignore. It rides the wind like it's chasing us, slipping past my nostrils and punching straight into my brain like a warning shot. Not the smoky comfort of woodfire. This is chemical. Black. Wrong.

Sirens howl in the distance. Not uncommon in New York, sure. Could be a mile away, could be on the next block. MJ doesn't say anything, and neither do I. We just keep walking, like we're trying not to invite disaster in by acknowledging it.

Then we turn the corner—and there it is.

A crowd's already gathered—phones up, faces twisted with panic, mouths open in that awful in-between stage where people don't know whether to scream or pray. Some are holding each other like that's going to be enough. Like holding someone close can stop the world from burning down around them.

The smoke is—God, it's thick. It rolls out of the building in waves, not wisps. It's not just black, it's hungry. It claws at the sky like it's trying to block out the sun. Ash is falling like dirty snow, catching in people's hair, clinging to clothes, painting everything in slow-motion dread.

The building's maybe five stories—brick, probably old enough that the wiring hasn't seen an update since the '80s. Metal fire escape on one side, twisted and half-melted already. The windows on the second and third floors are shattered, flames licking out like tongues searching for more air to devour. The top floor? It's practically invisible behind the wall of smoke.

People are still stumbling out—coughing, wheezing, eyes wild. Some of them are crying. Some are just staring at their hands like they forgot how they got there.

The fire isn't contained. It's winning.

And I'm just… standing here.

I could help.

The thought cuts through the noise like a blade. I could help.

If I go in, maybe I could get someone out—find a way up, get them to safety. That's what heroes do, right? That's what he would do.

But—then reality crashes back in.

I don't have a mask. I don't have web shooters. I don't even have a plan.

If it goes wrong in there… if I can't get out, if I can't get them out… if someone sees something they shouldn't…

I'd be putting myself in danger. I'd be exposing everything. There's a thousand reasons I should stay out of it.

And then there's that other voice. The quieter one. The one that sounds like every missed moment in my life.

This is what you always do.

You freeze. You wait.

You let someone else step in.

Why would it be different now? Even with powers, you're still just... you.

And for a second, I almost listen to it.

Then I hear the scream.

It's not coming from the building. It's coming from the crowd.

"Oh my God, our kids—our kids are still up there!"

My head snaps to the voice. A woman's crying into her husband's chest, her words frantic, barely forming.

"What floor?" I ask.

"Fourth floor," the man says. "They were watching television while we went to the bodega!"

Fourth floor?

I don't know what happens in my brain next. It's not logical. It's not even conscious. It's like someone pulled a lever and the whole machine just launched into motion.

The bag slides off my shoulder and hits the ground with a thud that feels final. My feet are moving before I can think. MJ calls my name, sharp and panicked.

"PETER!"

The world blurs at the edges as I sprint forward toward the building. If I waited, those kids were going to die. I wasn't going to let that happen.

People are scrambling past me—covered in soot, coughing, crying, grabbing onto whoever they can as they spill out the doorway like a dam finally gave out. I push against the current, ducking low and weaving through, a shoulder here, a twist there, until I'm inside.

The heat hits me like a truck.

It's suffocating. There's no ramp-up—no gentle warmth or warning wave. It's like stepping into the mouth of something alive and angry. The smoke is thick, cloying, and immediate. My eyes start to sting, watering so fast I can barely see past a few feet. It burns my lungs before I can even cough. Every breath feels like dragging in razors.

The lobby is already lit up—pillars of flame curling along the edges of the staircase, wallpaper bubbling, glass cracking from the heat. Everything groans around me, like the building knows it's dying and wants me to hear it.

I don't see anyone left. Just the damage they left behind—the signs of panic, of people who got out just in time.

I charge for the stairs, skipping two at a time—until a wave of smoke cuts off my vision and forces me to duck. I grab the railing, plant one foot, and launch myself up to the next landing—

SNAP.

The railing gives out under my grip, splintering in my hand like it was made of balsa wood. I barely catch myself as I hit the floor hard, shoulder-first. Pain spikes through my arm, but I grit my teeth and roll to my feet again.

"Fourth floor," I hiss. "Just keep… moving!"

I sprint upward again, faster now, my body almost surging. My heartbeat is hammering in my ears, so fast it should slow me down, but instead—

Everything else starts to slow.

The flicker of flames becomes lazy. The groans of stressed steel echo out like they're underwater. The smoke feels… lighter, almost like I'm ahead of it. I don't understand it—not really—but I'm moving through the world like it's stuck buffering and I'm not. My reflexes, my speed—everything feels like it just kicked into overdrive.

My feet hit the landing of the fourth floor with a force that makes the boards creak and splinter. The hallway ahead of me is half-gone—sections already collapsed, ceiling scorched black, doorways glowing like eyes. I whip my head side to side, trying to listen through the roar of fire.

Then I hear it.

Crying.

Faint. Choked. But definitely there.

I bolt toward the sound.

The door in front of me is closed—charred, but intact. Locked.

Of course it's locked. Probably thought they were being safe. Probably didn't think they'd leave and come back to this.

I don't hesitate.

"HANG ON!" I yell, voice cracked from the smoke. "I'M COMING!"

I slam a foot into the door—and the frame explodes inward. Thank you, spider powers… also, that had to look badass.

I stumble inside, choking on the surge of heat that blasts out to meet me. The apartment's in ruins—smoke curling along the ceiling, flames consuming the kitchen tiles, curtains melting into fire. Photographs are blackening on the wall, faces disappearing into soot. I cover my mouth with my arm and scan every corner of the room.

Nothing.

"Where are you?!" I shout, already moving.

And then I hear it.

"In here!"

The voice is small, hoarse, but alive.

I dive into the hallway, turning into the first door I see—bedroom. The smoke's thinner in here, somehow, but not by much. My eyes sweep the space—bed, dresser, toys scorched and smoking.

Then I spot the closet.

I run to it and rip it open.

There—two kids. A boy and a girl. Maybe five, maybe six. Blankets pulled over their faces, curled up as far from the heat as they can get. The girl clutches a stuffed animal with one arm, the boy has his free hand curled into a fist like he's ready to fight the fire himself if he has to.

They look up at me, blinking through tears.

"Hey," I say, crouching down, trying not to sound like I'm about to panic. "Let's get you to your mom and dad."

I scoop them both up—one in each arm, careful as I can be, but I'm still moving. No time for explanations. No time for anything, really. The girl clings to me instinctively, and the boy stiffens at first, then wraps his arms around my neck like he's afraid of letting go.

"Hold on," I say, hoarse, as I step out into the hallway again.

The heat outside the room has tripled. Flames lick along the ceiling, crawling across the cracked plaster like veins. The apartment is groaning louder now—wood straining, pipes popping from the inside out. This place is seconds away from becoming a funeral pyre.

I'm just about to make a break for the stairs—when I hear it.

That sound… like someone ripping the air in half. Snapping, cracking, and groaning.

I look up just in time to see the ceiling above us start to collapse.

"Oh no…" I barely let the words slip out of my mouth, as I pull the kids off of me and push them out of the way. They stumble forward, watching in horror as it comes crashing down. I lunge forward, throwing my arms up and catching the falling slab of ceiling with everything I've got.

The force of it drives me down to one knee. Fire blooms across the surface, heat rolling into my skin like molten breath. My hands scream. My shoulders shake like they're about to tear apart.

I should be crushed.

I shouldn't be able to hold this up.

And yet—somehow—I am.

Barely.

The wood and drywall grind against my palms, heat blistering through my skin, and I feel my entire body tremble under the weight. I grit my teeth so hard I taste metal. My whole chest seizes up as I fight back a sound—a scream or a sob or something in between.

The kids.

Get them out first.

I peek over my shoulder. They're frozen in the hallway, staring back at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"GO!" I choke out. "Run!"

The girl stumbles back, tugging the boy's hand. He follows, half in shock, but their feet finally start to move.

"Don't look back!" I call, voice barely holding together. "Keep going! Get to the stairs!"

I can't see if they listen.

But I feel the floor shift under me.

Everything's giving way.

I can't hold this much longer.

My elbows start to buckle. The ceiling hisses, alive with fire, and my grip slips just an inch—

And then I let go.

I throw myself sideways, rolling just as the whole section crashes down behind me in an explosion of embers and wood. My lungs seize from the smoke, my vision flickers, but I'm up again, grabbing the kids and hauling them both into my arms.

We're running before I even know where we're going.

The stairwell.

We reach it—

Just as it collapses.

Gone. Just like that.

It's like the building decided to pull the rug out from under me, and what's left is smoke and flame and nothing beneath us.

I freeze.

That part of me that's never done anything like this, the powerless part of me—he's already calling it quits.

We're screwed.

But then there's that other part.

The one that doesn't accept that.

The one that's whispering in my head that there's another way. That I can do something now I couldn't before. That I'm not powerless anymore.

I look down at the kids, clinging to me like they already know how close they are to never making it out of here. The girl's crying now, soft and scared, burying her face into my chest. The boy's shaking, but trying to be brave. He meets my eyes.

"You guys…" I swallow hard, stepping back from the missing staircase. "You like superheroes?"

He nods—barely—but it's enough.

I smile, even through the soot and pain.

"Well," I say, flexing my grip around them, "guess today's your lucky day."

And then I turn—and I jump.

Not down.

Sideways.

My feet slam against the nearest wall—and stick.

The kids gasp—one sharp breath each—as I crouch, pressed horizontal against the burning wall, just like I've done a hundred times in dreams, in comics, in games.

Only now… it's real.

"Hang on!"

I start to move—fast and controlled. Down one wall, across the next. I drop, flip, shift weight—every step more confident than the last. It's like I've done this before. Like my body knows something I don't. The heat still scorches, the smoke still chokes—but I'm cutting through it now.

We burst through the second floor.

The floor was already giving out, but I used it to my advantage. I used one of the falling pieces as a springboard to make the final leap to the first floor.

The front entrance is a blur. I vault over the wreckage, spin mid-air, twist to protect the kids as we hit the ground just outside the burning doors.

I crash into the pavement on my side, roll, and come up still holding them both.

The first thing I do is look at the kids. They're alive… all three of us are.

The roar of the fire behind us screams like it's angry we made it out.

People are shouting. MJ's voice cuts through it—my name, over and over again—but I can't answer yet. My heart's pounding too loud. My hands are shaking. My face is soaked in sweat and soot and tears I didn't even feel fall.

The boy looks up at me.

"Are you… a superhero?"

I just stare at him.

I don't know the answer, but I nod anyway.

"Awesome…"

I stumble back to my feet, chest heaving, knees shaking like they've forgotten what solid ground feels like. The kids are still in my arms, coughing into my shirt, but they're clinging tight—and I don't think they're planning to let go until I make them.

Their parents spot us first.

The moment the mother sees her kids, she screams—and not the panicked kind. The kind that's so full of relief it sounds like it hurts to let it out. She rushes forward, the father right behind her, both of them wide-eyed and barely holding it together. They practically collapse as I kneel to set the kids down.

"Mommy!" the girl sobs, flinging herself into her mother's arms.

The boy hesitates for just a second before running to his dad, still coughing but smiling faintly.

And then—

He turns his head.

Just enough to look at me.

There's soot all over his face, cheeks streaked with ash and tears, but he smiles—really smiles—and it's that kind of quiet understanding you don't expect from a kid that age. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't point. Doesn't even hint at what I did.

And I know, right then, he's not going to tell them.

They're not going to tell anyone.

The mom throws her arms around both kids, pulling them in so tight it's like she's afraid they'll disappear if she lets go. Her sobs come sharp and uncontrollable, burying her face into her son's hair. The dad's hands are shaking as he touches their shoulders, their cheeks, like he's still trying to believe they're real—like they're not just smoke-shaped memories.

He looks at me, and for a second, I see every possible version of grief he thought he was about to live through flash across his face. But it fades—melts into something else. Gratitude. Disbelief. Awe.

"You saved them," he says, voice thick and hoarse, cracking like burnt timber. "I don't—I don't know how you did it. Thank you. Thank you."

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

The words lodge in my throat like ash and glass.

I try to nod, to give him some kind of acknowledgment, but I can't. My chest tightens—violently—and suddenly I'm coughing so hard I can barely breathe. My lungs seize like they've been wrung out and lit on fire.

My knees buckle.

I hit the ground before I even realize I'm falling, the pavement slamming into me in a way that feels distant and underwater.

The heat's finally caught up to me. The adrenaline's leaving. And all that's left is the smoke.

"Peter!" MJ's voice slices through the noise.

And then she's there—arms around me, hands on my shoulders, trying to steady me.

I cough again, this time so hard it feels like my ribs are trying to break out of my chest. My eyes sting. Smoke, adrenaline, fear—take your pick. My hands won't stop shaking.

"Breathe," MJ says quietly, like she's reminding both of us.

I try.

In. Out.

Shaky. Ragged. Like breathing through broken glass.

The fire's still roaring behind us, distant but relentless. But here, in this moment, all I can hear is her—her breathing, her voice, her heartbeat pounding near mine.

"What were you thinking?" she asks, voice shaking, her fingers brushing ash off my face like that's going to make any of this make sense. "You ran into a burning building, Peter!"

"I'm okay," I rasp, even though I'm anything but.

"No, you're not." Her hands press against my chest like she's checking for damage, or maybe just reassurance. "You're not okay. You could've died."

I don't argue. I can't. The truth is: she's right.

And I look at her—really look. Her eyes are glassy, wide. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat or from the panic or maybe both. She's holding me like she doesn't know how else to process this.

Sure, maybe she doesn't realize how close I actually was to that happening, but none of that matters right now.

Because all I can say—all that's left inside me—is:

"I couldn't let them die, MJ…"

I didn't go in there thinking I'd make it out. Honestly? A part of me still isn't sure I have.

But when I heard them scream, everything else—the fear, the logic, the me that still thinks he's just a guy pretending to be someone better—it all vanished.

All I could think was: they need someone.

And for once, I didn't wait for that someone to show up.

Her arms tighten around me like she's afraid I'll disappear again, like those three weeks in a coma still haunt her in the back of her mind. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

And for a second, I let myself sink into that silence.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel good about myself…

Arsenal597 · 2025-12-03T22:58:10+0000

The fire is mostly out now, but my heart is still pounding against my ribs. I'm sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance, with an oxygen mask to my mouth and one of those stiff gray blankets wrapped around my shoulders watching the last of the flames get snuffed out. There were some obvious questions raised from the get-go.

Why did I run into the burning building without a second thought?

How did I get the kids out of there?

What was I thinking?

I've had plenty of time to think about it, and I gotta say… I meant what I told MJ. I couldn't stand there and let those kids die. No matter how angry I got, how much I hated the world in my lowest moments, I could never let someone die like that.

It takes me back to high school. There was a threat called in—someone claiming they were going to shoot the place up. It was fake, obviously. Some kid wanted out of school and had one of their online friends from another country make the call. It happened a few times over the course of maybe three weeks? Got traced pretty quick, and the kid got dealt with. Pretty sure the friend did, too.

But what I remember most was a conversation I had with my mom during all that. I was a kid with a wild imagination, always wanting to be like the heroes I grew up with. Mom told me not to be a hero, and you know, I told her… what good would I do trying to help? I couldn't be bothered to protect myself, so why would I try. She summed it pretty well.

I didn't care about myself as long as everyone else was alright. It's one of my family traits, being stubborn as hell, going out of my way to help people even if it meant getting hurt.

I didn't break up fights at school because I didn't want to get in trouble with the staff. I could have, but I was too scared of repercussions…

But if there was no chance of getting in trouble from it…

If there was a moment where I could genuinely help someone in danger, I would do it. I suppose in the end, she was right.

I want to help people, and for the first time in my life I had the chance to do that. When I said I felt alive, I was honest.

For so long, I felt stuck. I wasn't good enough. Since waking up as Peter, I'll admit, I felt out of place—disjointed, playing the part of someone I shouldn't be. With each morning I wake up, it feels more like this is the life I should have had. I love my family, the one I was born into… but this, it makes me feel complete. It's something I wasn't able to feel, even with them.

Has it been enough time to say that? No, probably not. It's only been about two weeks now, but… I can't help the feeling.

Now, back to the point at hand.

Right… my hands.

They hurt like hell—burned and raw, the skin flushed red where the heat kissed too close. They're wrapped in fresh bandages, now. The EMT said I should be fine as long as I take care of them, but honestly? The burns are nothing compared to what I'm feeling.

The firefighters were shocked I made it to the fourth floor with how unstable the building was. I told them I got lucky—that if I'd been a minute slower, I wouldn't have made it. It wasn't really a lie.

And the whole time I'm sitting there, I can't stop watching the kids with their parents—safe and alive, exactly where they're supposed to be. There's this quiet swell of pride in my chest I don't know what to do with. The look on the boy's face when we got out… it's burned into my brain in the best possible way.

It wasn't shock, or even full-on joy. It was this weird mix of disbelief and awe—like for a second, he thought he was in a movie, and then realized it was real. His eyes locked onto mine like I was more than a person, like I was something worth believing in…

That look…

God.

It was everything.

I'm still thinking about it when I hear footsteps crunching softly on the gravel behind me. I don't even have to look.

"Hey," MJ says, quiet, but not fragile. There's a careful sort of calm to her voice—like she's trying to not spook me. "You okay?"

I nod into the mask, then slide it down under my chin and turn to her.

"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out a little hoarse, like I've been screaming for hours. "Yeah, I'm great."

She arches her brow.

"Great?"

"I mean, my hands are burned, I probably look like I lost a fight with a chimney, and tomorrow I'll feel like I got hit by a truck," I say, trying not to sound too proud of myself. "But I'm great."

MJ lets out a soft laugh—short, but genuine. There's ash in her hair, smudged on her cheek, and for some reason she still looks more put together than I do.

"You scared the crap out of me," she says, crossing her arms. "Next time, maybe give me a heads-up before you go all... I dunno, action hero."

"I'll put it on the list," I offer a tired grin. "Right after, don't die in a fire."

Her smile fades just a little as she looks at my hands.

"Does it hurt?"

I glance down.

"Yeah," I nod, before laughing dryly. "But you know, this gives me an excuse to not do any homework tonight."

She doesn't say anything for a second, and I can feel her debating something. Then, carefully, she sits down beside me on the bumper.

"Everyone's saying you saved their lives," she says, nudging her knee against mine. "Their mom was crying when she saw you. Said she didn't know how to thank you."

I shrug, eyes drifting back to the family across the street.

"They don't have to."

"Still." Her voice softens. "It was brave. And stupid. And reckless. But... brave."

I don't know how long we sit there, the chaos winding down around us while the adrenaline slowly drains out of my system. Sirens are quieter now. The building's still smoking, but the real danger's passed. The real danger already happened.

I take one more breath through the mask and start to push myself up from the bumper. My legs wobble under me like they're trying to remember how gravity works, and for a second, the whole street tilts sideways.

MJ's hand snaps out, steadying me.

"Whoa—hey. Easy there, Tiger…"

Hearing the nickname felt like getting struck by lightning. My eyes widen before I can stop myself. It sounds weird, out of place—and yet for some reason, it had never occurred to me that MJ would end up calling me Tiger.

It's not a bad thing, though. If anything, it feels like something I didn't know I'd been missing.

"Tiger?" I echo, flashing her a crooked, soot-covered smirk.

She grimaces a little, already regretting it.

"Was that weird? That was weird. I don't even know why I said it—it just kind of—"

"Actually," I cut in, still smiling. "No. I like it."

Her shoulders ease a little, and she looks at me like she's trying not to smile too much.

"Yeah?" she says. "Well, don't get used to it."

"No promises," I say, still leaning on her a bit. "I kind of like it… makes me feel cool."

"You literally ran into a burning building," she deadpans. "I think you've met your cool quota for the week."

I snort and glance back at the flashing lights.

"Yeah, well… might've peaked early."

"You're such a dork," she says, but there's something soft about it.

"Hey, you like dorks, remember?" I lean back just enough to give her space to deny it.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, elbowing my arm.

We're still sitting there, the tail end of her smile playing on both our faces, when I hear my name.

"Peter!"

Ben's voice cuts through the noise. We both turn toward the street where a barricade's been half-parted to let them through. May's hurrying right behind him, her hands clutched tight in front of her chest like she can't decide if she's about to pray or throw herself at me.

MJ straightens beside me just as they get close, but before either of them even look at me, May wraps her arms around her.

"MJ, dear… are you alright?"

MJ blinks like she didn't expect to be the one caught up in a hug, and her voice stumbles just slightly.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Then she glances over at me, one brow raised like, why am I the one getting fussed over right now? "Did Aunt Anna call you?"

Ben steps in, arms already going around me in a hug that's firm enough to hurt if I weren't already numb from everything else. He smells like coffee and the old leather jacket I always associate with him. It hits harder than I want to admit.

"She did," he says. "She told us what happened."

I blink a few times, trying to put it together. MJ must've called after I got out. She didn't tell me she had—but, then again, I guess she didn't have to.

"She's supposed to check in whenever she's going to be late coming home," Ben adds, glancing at her with a smile that's more grateful than reprimanding. "Soon as she told Anna what happened, we were out the door."

"We were watching the news when the call came in," May says, her voice a little thinner now. "And when we saw the building—my god, Peter. We got here as fast as we could."

I nod, slowly. I can feel their eyes searching me, taking in the soot and the bandages, the ruined clothes and half-finished bottle of water on the bumper. I half expect May to scold me, or Ben to give me that quiet disappointed look—the one that always felt worse than yelling. But instead, there's only this… soft ache behind their worry. It settles into the space between us like warm air after a long winter.

Ben's the one who breaks the silence first.

"Peter… what were you thinking?"

I take a breath, already knowing the answer. "There were kids stuck in there. I couldn't just stand there and do nothing."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, like he's weighing that answer, trying to find the edges of what I'm not saying. Then his eyes soften, and he just nods.

Neither of them say "You shouldn't have." Neither of them ask if I regret it. They're not mad—not even a little. If anything, they look a little stunned. Maybe even… proud. That's the part I didn't expect.

I shift awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck with the arm that doesn't hurt as much.

"I know it was reckless. But I had to."

May steps in then and puts a hand on my cheek—gentle, thumb brushing some of the soot away.

"You scared the life out of me, sweetheart. But you're okay. That's all that matters."

It should feel patronizing. I nearly died, and all they care about is that I came back in one piece. But somehow, it doesn't feel like they're dismissing it. It feels like they see it—what I did, what it cost—and they're choosing to hold me closer because of it, not in spite of it.

MJ's quiet beside us. I catch her watching me out of the corner of my eye, something unreadable on her face. Not awe, not worry. Just... something. Whatever it is, it doesn't feel bad. It feels like I did something right.

Ben puts a hand on my shoulder.

"We're proud of you, Peter."

That hits harder than the smoke ever could. I look down for a second, jaw clenched to keep from getting misty in front of everyone.

"Thanks," I say quietly, because it's all I can get out.

The EMT gives me the all-clear after checking my vitals one last time, double-clarifying that I'm not about to keel over. I nod, thank him, and try to avoid the moment where he gives me that vaguely impressed look again. I've had enough of those tonight.

Ben offers MJ a ride home, and she hesitates for a second before nodding. I half expect her to decline—maybe say she'll walk—but she surprises me.

"I wouldn't mind," she says, and follows us toward the car.

May helps me into the backseat, fussing with the seatbelt like I'm helpless even though I could do it myself. My body protests as I slump down, every muscle screaming. I try to make myself smaller than the pain I'm carrying.

I shift once, twice, searching for a position that doesn't send burning reminders down my arms or stabbing jolts into my ribs, but there's no winning. The blanket's still around me — soft enough, but my body doesn't know how to relax anymore. Every time I breathe too deep, something flares. My hands burn under the bandages. My legs feel like wet sandbags. I swear even my eyelids ache.

The heater hums gently, which should help. It should. But instead, it just makes the car feel too warm, like I never really left the fire behind. My skin prickles. My brain keeps smelling smoke, even though there's none here.

MJ settles in beside me — close, but not pressed. Still, it's enough. I notice the warmth of her coat sleeve brushing mine, the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the burnt-plastic stench I can't scrub from my nose. My body screams for space, for air, for anything to take the edge off.

But I don't pull away. God help me, I don't want to.

Her presence is grounding in a way that almost hurts — like holding onto a live wire, but it's the only thing keeping me from falling off the edge.

My head dips back against the window. My eyes flutter closed for a second, and suddenly it all hits me again — the fire, the heat, the smoke thick as fog. My shoes crunching glass, the boy coughing in my ear as I dropped down the stairwell with both kids in my arms. The burst of heat against my face. The flash of fear that I'd miscalculated the jump. The rush of air. The moment we landed, hard but whole, on the first floor.

It was all real.

The pulse of it still hums under my skin like an aftershock.

Then — just barely — MJ's knee bumps mine.

It's nothing. Barely a tap. But my brain latches onto it like she just shouted in my ear. Suddenly I'm hyperaware of how close she is — the shape of her shoulder, the press of her sneaker on the floor, the curve of her fingers resting near mine on the seat.

And I feel it again — that dizzy, breath-catching vertigo.

Not because I'm crushing on her. Hell no.

It's just that around her, I don't have to pretend. I don't have to hold back or play a part. She genuinely sees me.

I wonder… would I be able to tell her the truth? Not the crazy part that I'm not really Peter Parker, but the part where I have superpowers. Everyone needs a confidant they can trust. Back with my old friends, I might have trusted Griff, Hunter, Gavin, or maybe one of my online friends like Mand, Jax, or Zod.

Here… I don't know.

Let's face it, MJ feels like the safest bet.

Harry's tricky — his father finding out could cause problems, and if something happened between us, I'm not sure he'd respect my reasons. He's his own person. I can't rely on what I think I know.

Ben and May? They'd freak if they knew I had powers. Sure, May might find out Peter's Spidey later on, but that always made things rough between us. I don't know if I could handle that kind of distance now.

Ben… that's a whole other story. Do I tell him, only to have fate intervene and take him away?

He's always the one who dies to kickstart Peter's transformation into Spider-Man.

I want to keep him safe. But can I do that without telling him the truth?

May clears her throat softly, cutting through the fog in my head.

"So, MJ, how are you settling?"

My mind's still tangled with the fire and everything that happened, but then—MJ's hand brushes mine. It's accidental, light, but it jolts me out of my thoughts. I freeze for a second, heart doing that weird skip, and my eyes catch hers. She doesn't pull away, just lets her fingers linger a moment before moving off like it was nothing.

My breath hitches.

May's voice brings me back, gentle but curious.

"Queens is a big change from the city. Must take some getting used to."

MJ nods, glancing toward me, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"It's been good," she says. "Definitely different. There's a lot more walking involved, and I'm still getting used to the fact that the bodega guy knows my name already."

May laughs.

"That means he likes you."

"I guess that's a good sign, then," MJ smiles. "It's weird—living in Forest Hills, I mean. It's quieter than what I'm used to, but… not in a bad way. Honestly, it's kind of nice having people I can count on." She says it casually, but there's a small glance my way mid-sentence, just enough to make my ears burn again.

I clear my throat and shift slightly, pretending to scratch at my neck.

MJ doesn't look away.

May hums approvingly.

"I'm glad to hear that. I've actually been trying to get Peter to meet you for a while now."

I immediately groan, dropping my head against the back of the seat with a dull thunk.

"May, please don't."

Ben makes a noise that's suspiciously close to a chuckle.

"What?" she asks, the picture of innocence. "I'm just saying—for all the excuses you gave me, the two of you seem to be getting along pretty well."

MJ raises her brows, turning toward me with mock offense. "Wait… so you didn't want to meet me?"

"I swear I will run into another fire right now," I mutter, scowling at the ceiling.

Ben bites back a smile.

"I think we've had enough emergencies for one day, don't you?"

"Speak for yourself," I say, flopping my head back toward the window. "I look like a roasted marshmallow."

May turns halfway in her seat to glance back.

"It's not that bad. You've got a rugged charm about you right now."

"Yeah," I deadpan. "Right up until someone actually has to smell me."

Ben chuckles again.

"There it is."

MJ stifles a snort behind her hand.

"I mean… she's not wrong. Rugged. Charred. Lightly seasoned."

"Wonderful," I mumble. "Glad to know I'm the perfect choice for a barbecue."

Somewhere between the off-ramps and the streetlights, the tension finally bleeds out. The city isn't racing past us anymore—it's settling in around us like a blanket. MJ shifts again, and this time when her coat brushes mine, I don't move.

I think maybe I like the way it feels, sitting here like this. Like things might finally be okay.

By the time Ben pulls into the driveway, my body's half asleep and my thoughts are tangled somewhere between the comfort of home and the weird high that's still riding out in my chest. The porch light flickers on automatically as the car slows.

MJ leans toward me just before opening her door. Her breath is warm against my cheek.

"Take it easy, Tiger," she says softly—and then she kisses me on the cheek.

It's quick. Barely a second. But I feel it like a lightning bolt straight to my spine. My head whips toward her the moment she pulls back.

"What happened to not calling me that?" I ask, blinking.

"No idea what you're talking about," she replies with a grin, already halfway out the door. "Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Parker!"

"Goodnight, MJ!" May calls after her.

Ben just hums as he shuts off the engine.

I stay sitting there for a second longer, stunned. Like maybe I dreamed the whole thing.

But the kiss still lingers, and I'm still smiling like an idiot.

Steam still clings to my skin as I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair in slow, tired circles. My shoulders ache, my ribs feel like they've been used as a xylophone by a heavyweight boxer, and my hands—well, the less said about them, the better. At least the bandages are redone. Neater. Cleaner. Less soaked in smoke and adrenaline.

I pull on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top, the cotton catching slightly on one of the burns as I move. Everything is sore. The good kind of sore, I think. The kind that tells you you're alive and maybe even did something right.

I don't even make it halfway to my bed before I hear the soft knock.

Ben doesn't wait for a response. He never really does.

The door creaks open, and he steps inside with that careful, measured walk he gets when he knows something needs to be said. He's still in the same jacket from earlier, but the lines around his eyes look deeper now, like the worry finally had time to settle in.

"Hey," he says. "Figured I'd check in before you crash."

"Sure," I say, nodding toward the desk chair. "You can sit."

He doesn't hesitate. Just walks in and lowers himself with a quiet groan, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. The kind of posture that means we're about to have a conversation, kid. Great.

"Peter, I think we need to talk about some things," he says.

A thousand scenarios flash through my mind at once.

"Everything okay?" I ask, playing it as calm as I can.

"Well…" He looks around the room like he's collecting his thoughts. Then he reaches out, gently brushing the wolf pendant hanging from my nightstand lamp. The one I bought the week after I woke up. "You tell me, son."

I shift, standing awkwardly by the bed, towel still in hand. The pendant sways slightly from his touch.

"I know these last few weeks haven't been easy," Ben continues. "Lord knows it's not been easy for your aunt or me either. But you've been through something… hard. And we've tried to give you space to figure it out."

"Yeah, I'm great," I say a little too quickly. I try for a smile, but it doesn't land.

He nods like he hears the gap between my words and what I mean. Like he always does.

"That's good," he says. "Really. But Peter…"

He looks up at me, and the air in the room tightens.

"…is there something you're not telling me?"

I freeze.

Not "is everything okay?"

Not "are you sure you're alright?"

But… "is there something you're not telling me?"

That one hits differently.

My heart stutters in my chest. Not in panic—yet—but in warning. Like I just stepped onto a pressure plate and don't know if it's wired to an alarm or a bomb.

"What do you mean?" I ask, careful. "I wouldn't hide anything from you or May."

Ben gives me a long, steady look. Not angry. Not accusing. Just… searching.

"I know you wouldn't lie to us. But I also know you, Peter. You're practically my son. Have been since the day you came to live with us. I know how you talk when you're dodging something. And I've seen it more than once lately."

I look down. My fingers twitch at my sides.

"And," he adds, "you're not wearing your glasses."

I blink.

It's such a small thing. Stupid, even. But there it is—proof he's been paying attention, maybe even more than I realized.

I haven't worn them since the morning after the bite. I don't need them anymore. But we all just… didn't mention it. May chalked it up to the doctors adjusting something. I gave vague shrugs. Nobody really pushed.

Until now.

"I… I guess I haven't needed them," I say, slow. "Since I woke up. The doctors didn't really say anything about it, so I figured—"

He holds up a hand.

"Peter, I'm not accusing you. I'm not even saying it's a bad thing. I'm just saying… something clearly has changed, and I just want to help you if you want it."

I look at him—and for a second, I want to tell him everything. The spider, the powers, the way the world doesn't quite feel like the one I left behind… but I'm not sure if I should.

"I'll always want you there, Ben. Nothing will ever change that."

"Okay," Ben smiles at me. "I won't pressure you, but if you want to talk about whatever's going on… I'll be here."

Ben starts to rise, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt.

"I won't pressure you," he says again. "But if you want to talk about whatever's going on… I'll be here."

I almost let him go.

Almost.

But my mouth moves before I can stop it.

"Uncle Ben."

He pauses, half-turned toward the door. "Yeah, kiddo?"

I don't look at him yet. My eyes are on the floor, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't just run into that building because I couldn't let those kids die. It's because… I knew I was the only one who could get them out."

He blinks, confused.

"What?"

I raise my hand slowly. The one that spider bit me on.

"I know the hospital never figured out what put me in the coma. What happened on that field trip. But I do know, even if I can't remember everything."

Ben's face shifts—uncertainty blooming behind his eyes.

"Peter, what are you—"

"I was bitten by a spider," I say. "At Oscorp. I don't know what they were doing to it, or what they were experimenting with, but something in it… changed me."

The words feel like they're made of lead.

"I have…" I trail off. God, this sounds so dumb when I say it out loud. "I know how it sounds. I know. But it's real."

He doesn't interrupt.

"It's better if I just show you."

I walk to the window and close the blinds, making sure the room is sealed up tight. Then I turn back to him.

"Uncle Ben, whatever you do, please don't freak out. And please—don't tell Aunt May."

He nods slowly, uncertain but open.

And then I crouch low, plant my fingers on the wall, and push off.

In one fluid motion, I leap up—and stick to the ceiling.

I stay there, upside down, heart hammering in my chest as I look down at him.

Ben stares up at me, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as dinner plates. He doesn't move. Just blinks, once, twice, like he's trying to confirm this isn't a trick of the light or a dream he's somehow slipped into.

"Peter… y-you…"

"Yeah," I say quietly. "That spider gave me powers."

He's still staring. Shock. Disbelief. Awe. All of it written across his face in equal measure.

I drop down a moment later, landing lightly on the balls of my feet, just like I practiced.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," I say, quieter now. "But it did. And I've been trying to figure it out ever since."

Ben opens his mouth, closes it. Then, finally—

"Holy hell," he breathes. "You're serious."

"I am."

He scrubs a hand down his face, still clearly trying to make sense of it.

"And you used those powers tonight," he says. "To save those kids."

I nod.

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then he steps forward and places both hands on my shoulders.

"I don't care how you got them," he says. "I care how you use them. And you used them to help someone."

I swallow hard.

"I didn't know if you'd believe me."

"I didn't either," he says honestly. "But I do. And I'm proud of you. Powers or no powers—you ran into that building because you couldn't walk away. That's who you are."

His hands squeeze my shoulders firmly.

"That doesn't change just because you can stick to ceilings."

I laugh—a little wet, a little shaky. But real.

He pulls me in for a hug, and I let myself lean into it, into him, into the impossible relief of not being alone in this anymore.

Ben exhales against my shoulder, then eases back just enough to look at me.

"Peter," he says softly.

"Yeah, Uncle Ben?"

"You're right… we cannot tell May about this."

I blink.

"She might have a heart attack."

A breath escapes me—half laugh, half groan.

"Okay, yeah. Fair point."

"She still thinks your Game Boy gave you migraines," he says, eyes wide with mock horror. "Imagine what wall-crawling would do to her."

"To be fair, she was probably right about that. The lighting does mess with your eyes."

We both laugh, and he brings me back into the hug.

"I'm proud of you, Peter. I am so proud of you…"

I shut my eyes, letting it sink in—-because hearing those words, like this, right now—after everything—I think it's the first time I've ever really believed them.

We sit down on the edge of the bed, still kind of caught between the surreal and the stupidly normal. My feet are flat on the carpet, his hands are clasped in front of him like he's still trying to make sense of what he just saw. He looks at me for a long second.

"So," he says. "The glasses?"

I shrug.

"I don't need them anymore. I mean it. I can see better now than I ever could. Everything's sharp—like, way sharp."

He nods slowly, processing.

"Okay… are people asking about it?"

"Honestly, not yet. I think they're still giving me time to adjust because of the whole amnesia thing. But I've got a fallback ready—if it comes up, I'll just say I got contacts."

"At least it's believable," Ben says, and leans back a little. "So. You can stick to walls. Your vision's perfect now. What else can you do?"

"Uh…" I rub at my neck, suddenly realizing how weird this is going to sound out loud. "It's a little hard to explain."

Ben raises an eyebrow, silently encouraging me to try anyway.

"You know those jokes about people having eyes in the back of their head?" I say. "Where they just seem to sense people coming?"

"Please don't tell me you have extra eyes."

"No-ho," I laugh. "That'd be—ugh, so uncomfortable. Like, how would you even wear a hat?"

Ben snorts. "Fair point."

"I'm thinking of calling it my spider sense," I say. "It's like... this instinct. A warning system. It tells me if I'm in danger, or if something bad's about to happen."

Ben leans in slightly, a crease forming between his brows. "And that's how you knew to get out of the building?"

"Kind of," I nod. "In the fire… the ceiling gave out while I was carrying the kids. I didn't see it. Didn't hear it. But I felt it—like this pulse in the back of my skull."

Ben exhales slowly, his lips tightening in something halfway between concern and awe.

"There's more," I admit. "I, uh… I'm strong now. Like, really strong."

"How strong?" he asks, and there's no judgment—just curiosity. Just the calm voice of someone trying to build a mental checklist.

"I held the ceiling up," I say quietly. "Just long enough for them to get past me."

Ben stares at me for a moment. No words. Just… taking that in.

"Oh," he says finally, with a blink. "You held the ceiling up."

I nod again. "Yeah. I didn't think. I just… did it."

He runs a hand through his hair, the way he does when something is so far outside his worldview that he needs a minute to reorganize the filing cabinet of reality.

Ben chuckles under his breath, shaking his head like he can't decide if he's amused or mildly terrified.

"Well," he mutters, "I suppose it's official."

"What is?" I ask, half-expecting some Hallmark moment.

"I'm finally going to start drinking because of the stress you give me, son."

I snort.

"You don't even like alcohol."

"Didn't," he corrects, dry as a desert. "That was before my nephew turned into a one-man Cirque du Soleil act."

I grin, the tension cracking a little.

"Hey, technically, I'm more like a Cirque du Arachnid act."

Ben gives me that long-suffering look he usually reserves for tax season or clogged drains.

"You are not putting that on a résumé."

"Hey, it's catchy."

"Jokes aside," he says, softer now, "this changes things, Peter. You know that, right?"

I nod.

"Yeah. I know."

"Your father, he uh... he had this philosophy... it shaped the way he lived his life, and hoped it would help make your life better by association. It's similar to your aunt's belief that if you help someone..."

"You help everyone," I finish the line, remembering it from the Insomniac game.

"Exactly... this philosophy isn't far off. If you have the ability to do something good, it wasn't an option... you had an obligation to do so."

My chest tightened. No, you're fucking kidding me right now. Ben, do not say what I think you're about to say.

Ben watches me for a second, like he's waiting to see if it lands. Like he's not sure if I already know where this is going.

And yeah… I do. The moment he said your father, the moment he started into all that philosophy talk—my stomach dropped. My chest tightened. My brain screamed no, no, no, not yet, don't say it, because I know what line is coming next.

But of course he says it.

"With great power," he says gently, like it's just something that's always been true, something passed down like a family recipe, "there must also come great responsibility."

And there it is.

The words that are supposed to break Peter Parker open.

The words that are supposed to come too late—that are meant to haunt him. But now… now they're here early. Before the grief. Before the loss.

They're being offered as guidance, not punishment.

I sit there, frozen for a second, unsure what to do with the fact that I've heard this line a hundred times before—comics, movies, video games, lectures burned into pop culture like commandments. It's iconic. Mythic, even.

It's up there with iconic lines in superhero mythos.

Somehow, despite the fact Ben is safe and sound in front of me right now, there's something bubbling in the pit of my stomach that's telling me otherwise.

I tell myself it's just nerves. Just everything catching up to me. But somewhere, deep in the back of my skull... something buzzes.

"You really believe that?" I ask, voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He nods. No hesitation.

"I do. I always have. And so did your dad. It wasn't about ego, or glory. It was about doing right by the people around you, even if no one saw it. Especially if no one saw it."

I glance down at my hands. Bandaged. Burned. Still trembling a little from everything I did today.

"Then I guess I've got a lot to live up to," I say.

Ben leans back, expression unreadable for a second. Then he smiles.

"Maybe. Or maybe… you're already doing it."

Ben stands slowly, the quiet creak of his knees almost louder than his voice had been a moment ago. His eyes linger on me with something I haven't seen from him in a while—something steadier than concern. It's pride. Not the kind people throw around in PTA meetings or at graduation ceremonies. The real kind. The kind that sits behind the eyes and makes a man straighten his back even when the weight of the world's still on it.

He places a hand briefly on my shoulder again—less for me this time, more for himself.

"We can talk about your… abilities more tomorrow, if you'd like," he says, smiling with just a hint of wear in it. "Though, I got one last thing to ask."

I raise a brow.

"Shoot."

He pauses—just long enough to make me nervous.

"Does MJ know?"

My heart skips, stalls, maybe even flips over entirely.

"…About the powers?" I ask, carefully.

Ben lifts an eyebrow in return.

"Yes, the powers…"

"No, I don't want to freak her out." I explain, but the truth is I'm afraid of bringing her into the crossfire if I put that mask on.

Ben hums thoughtfully, then taps the side of his head.

"When the time's right, trust her. Not just because she's your friend… but because carrying this alone is going to wear you down faster than whatever that spider gave you lifts you up."

He takes a step back, then gestures at me with the faintest smirk.

"And besides," he says, "I have a feeling she'd handle it better than I did."

"What do you mean? I've got you, Ben."

"Sure, but you're not always going to. She'll be around a lot longer than I will, Pete."

That hits me harder than it should.

I blink, like maybe I misheard him, or maybe if I don't react, the words will un-say themselves. But they just hang there—casual and quiet and undeniable.

"You're not dying," I say too quickly.

Ben smiles. Not a sad smile, not quite. But not a reassuring one either. Just… honest. Like he's known something for a while that I haven't been ready to face.

"Everybody's dying, kiddo," he says. "But no, this isn't a hospital bed speech. I'm just saying—there'll come a day when I won't be here to remind you of who you are. Of what you're capable of."

I don't like where this is going. I don't like it one bit.

"You're talking like you've got a calendar with a date circled."

He shrugs.

"Don't need one. Just… I've lived a lot of life already. And I've seen how fast things can change. So if there's someone out there who gets you—even a little—don't keep her at arm's length forever just because you're scared she'll see too much."

I rub my palm over my face, trying to process the sudden knot in my chest.

"It's not just about her seeing me," I say. "It's about what she'd be walking into… I don't want to put her in danger just for knowing me."

Ben considers that for a second. Then:

"You think your Aunt May wasn't scared when she married me? That she didn't worry about what might happen to her family? Loving someone doesn't come with guarantees, Peter. But it does come with choice. Let her make that choice. You don't get to decide what's best for her without even letting her in."

I let out a long, tired breath. The kind you don't realize you've been holding until your ribs ache from it.

I wasn't talking about love, Ben. For fuck's sake, I've only known her for about a week.

Ben raises an eyebrow, catching the tone even if I didn't say it out loud.

"You weren't talking about love," he says, like he's reading my thoughts off a teleprompter. "I know."

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, voice gentler.

"But let me ask you something, Peter… if it wasn't love—if it was just about protecting a friend—wouldn't that be more of a reason to let her in, not less?"

I open my mouth, then close it again. Damn it. He's too good at this.

"I'm not saying she needs to know everything tomorrow," he adds. "And I'm definitely not saying she needs to know it because you need to unburden yourself. I'm saying… trust isn't always about spilling your guts. Sometimes it's about letting someone see what you're trying so hard to carry alone."

I stare down at the carpet, picking at a thread with my toe.

"Like I said," he finishes, straightening up. "Just think about it. Goodnight, kiddo."

He disappears down the hall, his footsteps soft, deliberate.

And I sit there, in the hush that follows, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he's right.

"Goodnight, Ben."

Absolute Spider-Man

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